Chapter Thirteen
Lucas
It feels like I just need to reach out and I’ll be able to touch her.
My eyes are glued to her slight form through the tinted window of my car.
Chiara is sitting mere feet away by the window in a coffee shop, chatting with Lily and coddling Dante.
My hands shake when I rake them through my hair.
I drag my palms over my face, my skin feeling too tight.
Six fucking months. I’m still not sure that my mind is not playing tricks on me, and this is not a dream my feverish brain cooked up.
But no. I’ve lingered outside D’s gates since early morning, waiting for Lily to leave. Then at last, around noon, a car drove out and I recognized her form in the back seat. I’ve followed her here, to this godforsaken place.
Then I saw her.
It had been as if all the light and colors slammed back into my eyes at once, blinding me for a few seconds.
Her smile had blinded me—she had blinded me.
My eyes ate her up. My pulse rammed through me like a flood wave and my vision clouded for a second.
I had clawed at the collar of my shirt, undoing the buttons because I was suffocating.
It had taken all of my willpower not to storm out there, to her.
At this point, I have no precise plan, I only know that I need to tread carefully if I don’t want her to vanish on me again.
Fuck, she looks like a goddess, all golden skin, golden hair and radiant smile.
I can’t tear my eyes away from her, I’m drinking her in like a man dying from thirst. She takes my breath away.
I notice every little detail about her. How her wardrobe has changed, how the cleavage of the blouse she is wearing graces the slender slope of her neck, and how that pair of denims hug her ass like a second skin.
My mouth goes dry. Her hair is flowing unrestrained over her back like a silk curtain, her skin is glowing.
She is glowing. She looks happy. The thought slaps me with brutal clarity.
She has been happy, while I’ve been drowning.
I can’t fucking breathe.
Six months. Six goddamned months of tearing Boston apart, of going half mad chasing after her, burning through every lead until my knuckles bled from punching walls and my throat was raw from shouting at people who swore they knew nothing.
Six months of sending armies of PIs after her, of bribing officials in every goddamn airport I could think of, just in case her name popped up in the passenger list. When all this time, she has been hiding right under my nose, not even two hours away from Boston.
Six months of sleepless nights blurred into days, of bottles drained, of bridges burned, six months with my sanity slowly unraveling.
I’ve been a wreck, less than a man, barely a monster holding myself together with hate and obsession.
And she? She’s been smiling, laughing, and thriving all this time.
Living. Without me.
The unfairness of it claws at my chest like a feral beast. My lungs seize, I can’t breathe from the rage clogging up my throat, my heart slams against my ribs, my pulse is a wild drum in my ears.
Does she know what she’s done to me? Does she even care?
Part of me wants to storm over there to shake her, demand an answer, demand that she look me in the eyes and tell me how she could vanish and leave me with nothing but silence and madness.
Another part of me just wants to fall to my knees, bury my face in her lap and beg her to never leave me again.
God, I hate her. God, I crave her. God, I’ve missed her.
She laughs at something, and the sight is like a blade slamming between my ribs. All I can think is she doesn’t need me, not like I need her.
And that realization is seeping slowly into my veins like a vicious, acid poison, killing me painfully from within.