Chapter 42
Forty Two
Andie
It’s been almost a week since I last saw him.
A week since I had my heart brutally crushed beneath his unyielding, relentless pursuit of hurting me, and what was left of the confidence I had put together piece by piece.
I have spent the entire week being a hermit, not leaving the house for anything—God bless the delivery apps—and curling up with Millie whenever she lets me.
No matter what I do, however many glasses of wine I drown myself in, the persistent ache seems to keep growing in my chest. The heartbreak is a physical pain at this point, a constant pressure in my chest that I don’t know how to escape.
I haven’t talked to anybody in days—not my family, my friends, or my colleagues. I’m officially on “sick leave” and currently not taking visitors. Not in the condition I am in—red eyes, raw throat, and reeking of bad decisions and rejection.
What hurts even more is that no one would know what we had because, for the world, our relationship, the time we spent together healing and loving each other, never existed. And that truth presses like a log against my throat.
We were never real.
I’ve been through breakups, but none of them broke me enough to snatch that little flicker of hope from me.
But breaking up with Noah when we weren’t really in a relationship—not for the world anyway—weighs on me, makes me want to cut my skin open and remove any trace of him ever being there, while at the same time I want to preserve what little we had.
Being away from Noah is like something vital has been scooped out of me, making my world feel quieter, duller.
The colors of the rainbow don’t hit the way they used to as I see it spreading across the sky from my bedroom window.
The sight of it only makes me sob harder, every breath a struggle to hold on to the land of the living as the memories of every time he called me ‘Rainbow’ barrel through me with the intensity of a thousand suns.
There’s a reminder of him in every corner of my home. The couch reminding of the night I told him about my wish list, the kitchen reminding me of every time he fed me with so much sincerity. And his t-shirt that I’m wearing reminds me of his safe leather scent, tickling my nostrils.
When I pull at the cloth to sniff it, the fact that his smell has almost vanished causes me to break out in another gut-wrenching sob, my stomach pulling tighter with the physical pain of it—vanishing exactly like we did, fading away slowly until there was nothing left save for the emptiness in my soul.
Staying away from Noah and his little acts of care, which he put in when he thought no one noticed, had been my undoing. I was never supposed to fall for him for more reasons than I can count. He did warn me the very first day I asked him to take my virginity that he didn’t do love.
But I must’ve been in way over my head if I thought I could keep my sex life physical and not catch feelings for the man who seems to hide the monsters of his past from the world. I should’ve known better.
By the seventh day, my body seeks relief and respite and turns numb.
Numb to my never-ending tears, sore body, and thoughts that attack my mind with memories when I least expect them to.
It becomes numb to the world that keeps revolving as if my world didn’t obliterate into smithereens with no prior warning.
Everything goes…silent.
Except for the voice in my head that begs me to seek solace in methods that would harm me.
My only saving grace between all of this has been the book he encouraged me to publish.
I’m not publishing because he said so. I’m publishing because I need a purpose if I want to continue living.
I have something to share with the world, and if it can’t be my love, then I’d it rather be my words than nothing at all.
I create a new account under a pen name and start teasing about the book, sharing excerpts I know would tug at their heartstrings. And I know that because so much of my book is inspired by my life and everything I’ve gone through.
Just when I’m done posting another teaser, my doorbell rings. My brows draw together. I don’t remember ordering something.
With a sigh that scratches against my chest, I peel off the blanket from my stinking body and pad down to the door. My eyes forget to blink when I see the two people who love me at my door.
“Oh, sweetheart,” June Moore, a short woman with her gray bob cut, gasps at the sight of her only daughter, her eyes instantly filling with tears.
She steps inside, followed by Aurelia, and wraps her arms around me, not caring about how bad I smell. My body freezes, not expecting that, but then, with the warmth only a mother’s hug can exude, it melts, and I truly let go for the first time since I left his house.
I burrow myself in her neck, clinging to her like a lifeline. I wail for the love I thought I had, for the love I lost, and for the man who did it all. I cry in her arms with my chest hurting and tears flowing because even after everything he did, I still don’t hate him.
I don’t think I ever will.
And that cements what I already know—there’s no moving on from Noah Miller. Not as long as I breathe.
I sob in my mother’s arms, sick to my stomach with the fact that I have one when he doesn’t have anyone to comfort.
I sob for the loss of what we could’ve had. I sob for what he doesn’t.
I sob, and sob, and sob.
* * *
The next day, I get out of bed.
Crying and mourning the loss of my love with my mother and friend was something I desperately needed to get up the next morning.
It was only after they left—I pushed them out more like—I realized that I can’t continue like this. I need to learn to live without him.
I have lived without him. I’m sure I can do it again.
Sure, if you say so.
I rebuke my brain for its unhelpful remark.
The first thing I did was take a shower, scrub the house clean, and stock the pantry and fridge. Focusing on anything other than Noah and letting my body give in to exhaustion offered me some much-needed respite.
So the last thing I expect when I slump down on the couch with my phone is seeing photos of Noah and me splattered all over the web.
I sit up on a gasp, strands of hair falling from my bun. My trembling hands scroll through article after article, comment after comment, all claiming that Noah and I have been in a salacious relationship behind Ezra’s back.
The comments that hurt me the most, though, are the ones stating that I’m not anyone’s type, let alone Noah’s. Claiming that he was testing the goods because he must have been bored, as if they know the first thing about us.
They have no idea how close that hits, as the last thing Noah said before kicking me out of his house haunts my mind.
But it’s not the comments about me that worry me; it’s what they could mean for both Ezra and Noah as players and as friends. The thought of their friendship coming to an end because of me—even if Noah and I are over—eats me up inside.
I press the heel of my palm to my chest, trying to soothe the ache. Millie rubs herself against me, sensing my need for comfort.
My phone starts ringing, Noah’s name flashing on the screen. It’s the first time he’s called me after he stomped on my heart. My thumb hovers over the screen, hesitant to answer the call. The call drops before I can even muster the courage to swipe the green button.
It rings again, causing my heart to jump before it settles back as Ezra’s name flashes on the screen, while texts from my friends and parents bombard my phone. The worry and attention make my head dizzy.
Instead of answering a single call or text, I shut my phone off completely. I need space and time to process what I’ve just learned and steady myself before facing anyone.
But it doesn’t really help. Not when every photo is burned into my vision. It’s not just the ones of Noah and me together—it’s the solo shots of me that make my skin crawl with unease.
My eyes widen as I remember that constant, nagging sensation, the prickling awareness at the back of my skull, like I was always being watched. So many times, I brushed it off as my imagination.
But it wasn’t, was it?
I was being followed, stalked while doing the most mundane things, like going grocery shopping, returning home from school, and meeting my friends.
My trembling hand covers my mouth when I gasp, realizing just how many times I put the people I love in danger. They could’ve been…I could’ve been…
No!
I can’t think like that.
I’m okay. I’m safe.
I shake my head to rid myself of the scary thoughts. Standing up on shaky legs, I pad to the kitchen and open the liquor cabinet. My stomach drops when I find it empty.
Deciding that I need some wine to keep me together, I slide my hands into Noah’s hoodie, which he left one time, and tighten the strings of my pajamas before grabbing my purse and leaving the house.
Thank God the sun has set, so there’s less chance of anyone recognizing me or seeing me looking like a vagabond.
The chill in the air, even in summer, has goosebumps spreading across my skin. I put my arms around myself, hoping that it’ll ward off the coolness. It doesn’t. And then suddenly, I feel the nip at the back of my neck, my body freezing.
My gaze skitters around me, looking for the cause.
Is someone watching me?
I find nothing out of the ordinary—the street light flickering, faint barks of dogs, occasional horns and roar of a passing vehicle, and a car I don’t recognize parked across the street.
But that’s nothing new since the small pharmacy around the corner has customers lining up at all hours of the day. I’m probably being paranoid after reading the article.
I give my head a light shake to do away with the restless thoughts plaguing me.
I hurry to the store and buy two bottles of my favorite red wine and a few snacks to chew on.
I’m on my way back when I almost collide with somebody. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I apologize with my hand extended in front of me as I side-step the man to be on my way, keeping my head down.
“What’s the hurry, shortie?”
Unable to believe what he just said, I sputter, “I’m sorry?” I stumble back, the predatory grin on his face sending a wave of unease rushing through me.
I jump in surprise when my back meets someone else, instantly severing the unfamiliar contact. “The old crook was right. You’re luscious after all,” he remarks, his hungry and sinister gaze raking the length of my body, as his bald head reflects the moonlight.
Then it suddenly hits me. I remember seeing this bald man outside Velvet Whisk when I was visiting my friends. That day, I thought I was being paranoid.
Turns out, I wasn’t.
A feeling of intense disgust and extreme fear rolls make my spine shiver. My eyes widen as they dart around, scanning my surroundings for anyone who could help me. Instantly, I pat my pockets, cursing myself when I remember I left my phone at home.
My head whips toward my apartment; it’s only a few feet away. If I make a run for it, I might make it.
“No use in running away, short cake. We’ll catch you,” the man I first collided with sneers, his tongue flicking over his eroded teeth, his hand brushing away his graying hair.
My breathing turns ragged, ears ringing with the sound of my beating heart, fear taking control of my body as they both move in my direction on the sidewalk, their figures towering over me.
“Let’s have a little taste of these big tits, shall we?
” Bile works its way up my throat at his words.
The man with graying hair extends his hand to touch my breast, and just as he is about to reach me, I drop the bag with the wine and slide under his hand and make a run for it, taking advantage of my height.
For a second, freedom seems within grasp before it is brutally snatched from me when one of them grabs my hair and pulls, dragging me back to them. A terrorized scream scratches my throat as it leaves my mouth in the dead of the night.
Hot tears gather in my eyes at the pain, my nails scraping the skin on his hand, hoping he’ll let me go. I’m not going without a fight.
Even if it kills me.
I don’t know who they are and why they want me.
But I could give a shit about that.
No one’s coming to save me. I’m on my own.
That realization overpowers any fear, giving way to a rush of adrenaline.
With a battle cry, I pick up my right foot and jam it in his dick with every ounce of strength I can muster, hoping that it hurts like hell.
It does.
His hold from my hand vanishes as he crouches down, cupping himself as he shouts in pain. “You bitch!”
The bald guy’s eyes widen, not expecting me to fight back. Like hell I will let them win without even trying.
My eyes turn to slits when he adjusts himself, his leering smile directed at me. Oh, this motherfucker is so dead. And it’s like the thunder that rumbles in the sky agrees with me, small droplets falling over us.
I instantly bend down, grab the top of the broken wine bottle, and slash his neck as he attempts to jump me. With a bitch-scream he stumbles back, his palm coming back seeped in his blood when he inspects his wound.
An unhinged smile spreads across my face, his eyes widening in horror. “You didn’t really think that I’d beg you for mercy, did you?” I don’t even recognize the sound of my own voice as it gets drowned out by another rolling thunder.
This time, the man with graying hair gets his bearings enough to attack me. Thinking that he can take me, he rushes toward me with full force, the rain now pattering over us with full force.
He thought wrong.
All I have to do to take him down is bring up the broken glass in my hand in front of me, and he slams his full body right into the waiting makeshift dagger. His eyes bulge out in pain, his body slumping against mine as the filthy, warm blood from his stomach glides between my fingers.
With a growl, I take out the glass from the injury and push him back, his huge figure instantly giving in to gravity as it sinks to the ground, blood gushing out of him unrestrained.
The dripping water blurs my vision, making me wipe my eyes. The rumbling thunder and the pouring rain are why I miss the bald guy picking up another shard of glass and attacking me.
By the time I open my eyes, it’s too late. He already has the glass just inches away from my face.
On pure instinct, I flinch, squeezing my eyes shut as I wait for the approaching pain from where he’ll strike me.
There’s only one thought swimming through my mind as the rain soaks my body, my arms covering my face as if that’ll protect me from the wretched fate that awaits me.
I tried.