Chapter 53
TJ
Iwake up with one of the worst headaches I’ve ever experienced.
My head feels like it’s pounding with a dozen construction workers inside, and I feel severely disoriented.
It takes me a few minutes to figure out where I am: Cornelia’s place.
I don’t remember ever being inside this room, but it’s easy to identify—it matches the rest of the house’s architecture.
High ceilings, Mediterranean style, double-door arches.
Either that, or I’m in a house built by the same architect.
I groan as I move—everything hurts. Even the sound of a pin dropping would be unbearable right now.
I turn to the bedside table and spot two ibuprofen pills and a glass of water, each accompanied by a sticky note.
The first says, Eat me, and the second one says, Drink me.
They’re in Cornelia’s handwriting, which confirms I’m in her house.
A few flashes of last night begin to surface: me doing drugs, someone holding a snake, someone jumping from the yacht into the sea, being dragged out of the yacht, kissing Cornelia. I’m not sure what’s real and what isn’t. The last one… probably isn’t.
It’s the worst feeling—not knowing if you can trust your own memory, doubting yourself at every turn. I—I had sworn I’d never let myself experience this again, but here I am. At least this time, nothing horrible happened.
I really should stop. I’m not an addict or an alcoholic—I can stop if I want to. It’s just that, for a while now, it has been my main coping mechanism. A bad one. A self-destructive one.
I feel something sticky on my cheek—it’s another sticky note. It says, You are better than this. I run my fingers over it, tracing the loops and curves of Cornelia’s handwriting. I don’t know if I am, but it’s nice that she thinks so. I fold the note carefully and shove it into my pocket.
I pop the pills into my mouth and swallow them with the water, then slip on my shoes and head out to look for someone—preferably Cornelia.
I don’t even know what time it is; my phone is dead.
I wander around the house. It’s a stunning house, built into a cliff with a ground floor, an upstairs, and two floors below.
It’s amazing how the architecture integrated the rock and the cliff into the house and optimised the space by doing so.
Even the lower floors don’t feel like you’re underground because of the large arched windows and doors that open to the pool and terrace area.
I get to the kitchen, and there’s Randal cleaning some plates and pans.
“Hey,” I tell him.
He glances at me and then continues what he’s doing. “Good afternoon, Mr Winthrop.”
I’m not sure if it was him or Laurie who dragged me. I think it was Laurie. He wasn’t at the party. But I think he saw me high.
“Is Cornelia, my brother, or Annabelle around?”
He moves a pan, and it makes a loud noise, making me flinch. My head feels a bit better, but still hurts a lot. I’m pretty sure he did it on purpose.
“Your brother left in the morning after speaking to Miss Pieret, and,” he looks at his watch, “since it’s already six in the afternoon, Miss Monroe and Miss Pieret went into town for lunch a few hours ago.” There’s judgment in his tone.
“Okay,” I say, not knowing what else to say.
“There’s a car outside waiting to take you back to Mr Bearnardet’s house.”
“Thank you,” I reply and make my way outside.
I enter Lucian’s house. It’s unusually silent, nothing like the noise from the day before. I figure they’re out, or most of them are nursing hangovers.
Lucian’s place is also beautiful—a house with ten bedrooms, three floors, a pool, and breathtaking views of the French Riviera. Though its contemporary architecture isn’t my favourite style. I prefer architectural styles with a lot of history and complexity.
I walk into the living room and find Laurie sitting on the sofa beside the bar cart, dressed in a plain white tee and grey joggers, a glass of what looks like bourbon in hand, staring outside.
The doors to the terrace are open, and the curtains are pulled back, allowing the view to be appreciated from inside.
“Hey,” I say.
He notices me, though he seems lost in thought. “Hi.”
“Where is everyone?” I ask Laurie as I sit beside him.
“They all went to Monaco to enjoy the last day.”
“Why didn’t you go with them?” I know my brother better than to think he stayed here to wait for me.
He shrugs. “I didn’t feel like it.”
“Is it because of Annabelle?” I ask him carefully.
He nods, gets up, and turns to the bar cart. He pours himself more bourbon, fills another glass, and hands it to me before sitting back down.
“Do you love her?” I wondered about it for a while, but looking at him now, I think I already know.
Laurie takes a big gulp from his glass. “It doesn’t matter. I already fucked it up really badly.”
He should tell Annabelle either way. But he won’t.
I understand Laurie—he’s trying to preserve Camille’s memory.
He’s the most loyal person I know. She’s no longer here, and still, he’s loyal.
For some time, it didn’t seem difficult for him, but now that he’s found love again, it’s eating him alive.
He’s battling between what he thinks is his duty and what he feels.
But he’s just twenty years old, and he can’t stay single forever because of what happened.
“Do you still love Cornelia?” Laurie asks, trying to change the topic. I let him.
“The moment I stop will be the moment I’m dead.” And whatever comes after this life, I am sure I will still love her there.
I drink from my glass. Bourbon isn’t exactly the best thing to cure a hangover, but it’s needed for this type of conversation.
“I know you don’t like to talk about what happened, but if you ever want the opportunity to get her back, something has to change,” he tells me.
I sigh. “I don’t think that’s even in the realm of possibilities anymore.” After all, the reason I got high last night was that she’s moving on. And I’m frozen, loving her, and I will always be.
Yet, I can’t help thinking about the note in my pocket and the kiss. At this point, I’m pretty sure kissing Cornelia was a dream.
If I could dream like that every day, I’d never want to be awake.
But what if it wasn’t a dream?
Unconsciously, one of my hands moved to touch my lips.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he replies softly.
I look at him, shocked. Does he know something I don’t? Or did Cornelia tell him something?
“I don’t like giving false hope, but at the very least, she doesn’t hate you.
If she did, she wouldn’t have tolerated or taken care of your high arse last night.
But if you ever hope to get back with her, you need to sort yourself out, because what you’re doing isn’t healthy, nor is it going to mend anything. And you have a lot to mend.”
“So should you.” My words aren’t meant as a reproach—it’s the truth. He’s giving me good advice, advice he should heed.
“I know,” he whispers.
I sigh and look outside.
For the first time, we’re both on the same page when it comes to our love lives. We’re both in love with a girl whom we’ve messed up with so badly, dug ourselves into holes so deep we don’t know how to climb out.
At least we’re not alone. Misery loves company, after all.