Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Iwake up to the light filtering through the hotel room window. I wish I had magic powers to banish the sun from existence, to reverse its path and keep the moon residing in the sky for another hundred hours. It wouldn’t be enough. I can recognize that now, even if I couldn’t a few days ago. I crave this man on a level I thought I understood. Silly, silly woman.

I knew nothing.

Devan looks so fucking peaceful when he sleeps. He’s stretched out on his back, one arm flung over his eyes. It’s the first time he’s stopped touching me since we got into bed, and that absence is what woke me. I reach out a hand, but stop before I make contact with his chest. What will it accomplish? I’m just going to prolong the moment of goodbye. Worse, he’s already proven that he’s very intuitive when it comes to my needs.

I want something he can’t give me, and that will hurt him and make him uncomfortable, which will just make this situation that much more unbearable. He’ll try to let me down gently. I know myself well enough to know that I’ll respond by striking out, and that will ruin all the good memories we just created.

No, there’s only one thing to do.

I slip out of bed and dress quickly, pulling on a pair of jeans and a top that I had packed for the morning after. Scraps of my lingerie are tossed around the room, but I don’t want to gather them all up; every moment I linger is one where Devan might wake and demand to know what I’m doing.

Instead, I detour into the bathroom, shove all my stuff into my bag and head for the bedroom door. I pause there and look back. Devan hasn’t moved, aside from the steady rise and fall of his chest.

He opens his eyes and looks at me.

I freeze.

There’s no denying exactly what I’m in the process of doing—sneaking out without saying a word to him. Being a coward of the highest order. I hold my breath, waiting for him to ask me where I’m going, or maybe tell me to get my ass back to bed. Devan does neither of those things.

He shuts his eyes.

Loss reaches up and slaps me in the face. I suspected my feelings were one-sided, but this just confirms it. He doesn’t want a messy ending, either. He’d rather I slip out of his life, never to be seen again, than to awkwardly let me down easy. That’s a good thing. That’s what I wanted.

So why does it feel like someone wrapped their fist around my throat and is squeezing for everything they’re worth?

Numb, I turn and stumble down the hallway. I stop in front of the desk with the hotel stationary on it, but what could I possibly write that wouldn’t come off as either begging him for more or shitting on what we’ve shared? Except… Did we really share anything at all if this is how it ends?

This is what I wanted.

Maybe, one day, I’ll actually believe it.

Besides, it’s better for both of us if Devan never knows that I feel like I left my heart back in that bedroom with him. He’s too strangely honorable; if he knew, he might try to make things work just to avoid hurting me. I don’t want that. I want to be with someone who chooses me. Not someone who is only in my life because they were thrust there by my parents’ death.

Leaving this hotel suite shouldn’t be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

And yet…

By the time I make it to the street and flag down a cab, my chest feels like I’ve strapped a boulder to it. Too heavy, too tight. Everything hurts in a way that has nothing to do with what Devan did to me last night.

It doesn’t matter. All pain fades with time. Even this. Maybe especially this.

I just need to get my head on straight and realize that I didn’t really fall in love with Devan McGuire. Time will help gain perspective; I’m sure of that. But I don’t want to wait, so I’ll just have to go to the next best thing. Distance.

I stop by my apartment long enough to shower, change, and pack a small bag. I flip through my passport, looking at all the stamps from so many different countries. Surely the solution to these horrible feelings inside me lay in one of them.

But first, I have a stop to make.

* * *

Two weeksand three countries later, I have to admit I miscalculated. Nothing helps. Not the cold, not the sun, not the gorgeous locales that have always soothed me in the past. Certainly not the lingering constellation of faint pain on my hips. I don’t even feel like taking pictures for my social media, and I had so many comments asking where I was and if I was okay, I had to write a freaking statement in the notes app and let everyone know I’m taking a short hiatus.

In short, I’m miserable.

How the hell does the loss of a man who wasn’t even in my life to begin with hurt so much? I never realized how much I felt Devan’s silent presence, even if I only saw him one night a year. There was just this belief that if I ever really needed him, he’d be there. I might have learned to fight my own battles, to banish my army of personal demons, but in the moments when my resolve wobbled, Devan was there to ensure no harm came to me.

I don’t have that strange sort of safety net anymore.

Turning twenty-six is going to be a nightmare.

I close my eyes and lean back against the lounge chair. The gentle sound of the waves do nothing to calm me, even though the sun, sand, and ocean have been a foolproof mood-boost every other time in the past.

Without thinking about it, I pick up my phone and check my email. And there it is, right at the top. An email from my attorney letting me know that the trust fund is officially under my control and suggesting we make an appointment to go over everything as soon as possible.

It’s over.

“Of course it’s over.” I almost delete the email, but that’s as childish as hiding under the covers and hoping a thin sheet is enough to protect you from the monsters in the dark. The real world doesn’t care about your fears or hurts. It kicks you in the teeth and then carries on, dragging you behind it whether you’re ready to move on or not. Clinging to the past won’t accomplish a single damn thing but making everything hurt more.

I scroll through my email. There’s one from my therapist, gently checking in after my birthday. I respond to that one, letting her know I’m doing okay and rescheduling my appointment for this week. Again.

I’m not ready to go back to New York.

Which means I need to book a flight. Running never helped me solve anything; something I should have remembered before I ran from Devan that morning. The more time and distance I get from it, the more I wonder if I misread the entire moment. Yes, he didn’t call me back or chase me, but from the comments he made, he’s already very aware of what he perceives as a power imbalance between us. He might not be my guardian anymore, might not be the executor of my trust, but maybe those factors came into his decision to let me go. Maybe he was trying to respect my decision.

Damn it, this is a mess. I’ll never know because I don’t even know where Devan lives. I have his phone number, but it feels very uncomfortable to text him something like hey, I know I took off like a thief in the night after we hooked up, but maybe we should talk more?

I…can’t.

I put myself out there seducing him. I did it again when I confessed my fantasies about my birthdays, and again when I slipped up and told him how I felt. He pretended he didn’t hear me, but I know he did.

Maybe it’s foolish to let my pride draw this line in the sand, but I can’t shake the feeling that if I chase him down now, if we fall into something more long-term, I’ll always wonder if he’s only capitulating because he doesn’t want to hurt me. That fear might be foolish in the extreme, but I can’t shake it.

No, if Devan wants me, I need him to chase me. Just a little.

I switch over to my social media and scroll for a bit. Beautiful images of beautiful people, most of them as carefully curated as my social media feed. I see that a friend tagged her location, and that makes me think of Devan and his insistence that I stop doing exactly that. I sigh and keep scrolling. Everything makes me think of him these days. It’s something I’m going to have to make my peace with, apparently. Having a broken heart might make for some amazing creative projects for artists, but it’s highly overrated for normal people.

I sit up abruptly. Wait a damn minute. What if I…

It feels like such a long shot, but I don’t care. Anything is better than sitting here and wondering if I fucked things up. At least this way, I’ll know for sure if he’s not interested in seeing me again. It will provide some much-needed closure. Then I can truly move on.

Hopefully.

It takes too much to go back to my hotel room and make myself photo ready, but I have a brand to consider and I don’t want any part of this to be in half-measures. When I’m ready, my hair in waves, some lip gloss on my lips and dressed in a tiny white bikini that sets off my newly tanned skin, I go back down to the beach. It takes another thirty minutes to get a shot I like—something that would have been easier if I had one of my preferred photographers around. But I’ve been taking plenty of selfies over the years, and I finally manage to get an image I’m happy with.

Me, looking out over the ocean, the setting sun in the background. It’s not really a happy photo, but that’s okay. I’m not particularly happy at the moment. After a silent debate with myself, I type out the caption, Wish you were here. Then I turn on the location, tagging the resort.

My heart is beating too fast, my breath coming in harsh inhales as if I’ve been running. This might all be for nothing. There’s no way to tell. Maybe Devan really isn’t interested and won’t even notice what I’ve done.

Five minutes later, my phone chirps.

I stare at it a long moment, wondering if I’ve spent so much time thinking about him, I’m not hallucinating his name coming through as a text. Except, no, I’m not, and yes, Devan has actually texted me.

Devan: I told you it’s not safe to tag your location.

I don’t pause to consider my response.

Me: Oh no. Do you think someone might show up?

Devan: We talked about this.

Come on. Understand what I’m trying to do. Maybe he just needs a little push? It’s got to be a good sign that he’s obviously got my account tagged or something, right?

Me: And yet, here I am, tagging my location.

Devan: Are you trying to provoke a response?

Me: Maybe.

Me: Is it working?

I hold my breath, waiting as three dots appear, and then disappear, and appear again. I haven’t misread things. I know that now. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I had. All that said, I need Devan to take a step further. I need him to give me a sign that this is more than just him being over-protective.

A sign that he actually wants me.

Devan: You’re the one who left without saying a word.

Devan: You have something to say, say it.

Me: I’d rather talk in person.

Devan: Hazel.

Me: You know where I’m at. Come get me.

He doesn’t respond. Not in the next few minutes. Not later that night when I’m tossing and turning and failing to fall asleep because every rustle convinces me that I’m missing a phone notification.

By the next morning, the truth settles in. It’s really over. He’s probably aggravated as hell that I can’t take a hint, and now I’ve thrown myself at him yet again. God, I really can’t take a hint, can I?

I pull on an oversized button-down T-shirt dress and wander down to the restaurant. Ordering myself a pitcher of mimosas might be a tad bit self-destructive because I don’t think I’ll ever drink them again without thinking of him, but the heart wants what the heart wants.

Right now, my heart wants to get messy drunk until I forget all about Devan McGuire.

I get seated in a cute little corner booth. Since drinking without some kind of breakfast is crass, I order pancakes. Out of pure spite, I take a picture of the meal and mimosas and post it on social media, tagging the location again.

After this, I’ll stop. I swear I will.

Ultimately, Devan is right about it not being particularly safe, especially since I’m alone right now, but I hope he sees this picture, thinks about what he described to me, and gets a legendary case of blue balls.

Except posting that picture makes me think about it, so now I’m heartbroken and horny, and I have no one to blame but myself.

I’m one drink in and picking at my plate when a shadow falls over me. A very large, very angry shadow. I look up slowly, and maybe I’ve drank more than I realized because I couldn’t possibly be seeing what I think I’m seeing.

I blink. “Devan?”