5. Hunter

Chapter 5

Hunter

then

"I can do this."

Running my hands down my little black dress, I smooth away nonexistent wrinkles.

I spent nearly an hour getting ready, and yet I refuse to really look at myself in the mirror. It's like I'm waiting for a jump scare—afraid to make eye contact or focus on my own reflection for too long, in fear of what truths I'll see.

Despite digging a deep hole and burying all the emotions threatening to bubble up inside me, tears still leak from my eyes without my permission. I attempt to swipe them away without smearing my eyeliner. I fail.

"Let me see you!" Louie calls from the living area of our flat.

With a flustered breath, I hustle to fix my makeup again.

Louie's done so much for me over the last few weeks. First by allowing me to join her in London and share the little apartment she had originally rented for herself. Then with helping me get hired where she was planning to work .

It's a lovely flat. Two bedrooms with an adorable little balcony overlooking a bustling street in Mayfair. It came furnished, and the living room catches gorgeous light in the morning. The bathroom is straight out of the '80s, and the kitchen is practically nonexistent, but we make do with the espresso machine, icebox, and hot plate.

Best of all? It's only two blocks away from our new place of employment: Splice, one of the hottest nightclubs in London.

Which is where we're heading now, for our first training shift as hostesses.

I bite on the insides of my cheeks to keep the tears at bay and check my eyeliner and mascara one last time before leaving my room.

"Not much to see." A lackluster reply is all I can muster as I grab my shoulder bag and join my roommate in the main space. Despite my best efforts, by the time I approach her, my eyes are misting again.

"No, no, no!" she admonishes when she notices the tears. "You're going to ruin your makeup. We work at Splice now. We have to look posh and sophisticated." Louie grips me by the shoulders, holding me at arm's length and frowning, probably regretting allowing me to tag along. "Hunt… what do you need?"

It's not what I need. It's who I'm missing. Who I'm so desperate to call.

I haven't filled Louie in on the demise of my relationship—how I endured the worst day of my life, then made life-altering choices for Greedy and me. How I ran away.

Trouble is, my sorrow seems to have ventured across the pond with me. No matter how hard I try, no matter how badly I want to forget.

Blowing out a long breath, I stand straighter and sniff back my tears. "I need this job," I admit to my friend.

"We'll fit right in. My cousin Taylor swore it. They've been working at the club for almost a year and even have their own set on Thursday nights."

My shoulders lower an inch, and the tightness in my chest eases. Her enthusiasm settles my nerves .

"How about a shot for courage?" She marches into the kitchen and pulls a bottle of cheap vodka out of the icebox.

I shake my head and fight back a shudder.

Head tilted, she frowns. "Something stronger?"

What could be stronger than vodka? I sniffed the bottle when she brought it home, and it smells like disinfectant.

"I'll be okay," I promise, giving her a weak smile. "Let me fix my mascara and pee one more time, then we can go."

"Two minutes," she hollers after me.

I grab my toiletry bag off my nightstand and dip into the bathroom. Without looking, I unzip it and dig through it for the mascara.

While I'm searching, my hand grazes a solid mass. I freeze.

Grasping it shakily, I close my eyes and will my racing heart to settle. It's my old phone—the one I used throughout high school. It's the final connection I have to who I was, and to him.

Last time I powered it on, it had less than 40 percent battery life.

I didn't bring the charger. A choice I've regretted every day since arriving in London. I'll be lucky if I can power the thing on more than two or three more times. I refuse to waste one of them now.

Instead, I hold it. Feel it. Press it to my heart, wishing that the words he left in voicemails could take root inside me.

Eight messages. He left me eight messages, then they stopped. It took a day to realize that my mailbox was full, so I deleted a few voicemails I'd saved in the past, including one from my mom and two from my dad wishing me a happy birthday and a merry Christmas last year.

Deleted them to make room for him. To preserve. To hold on to the only piece of him I allowed myself to bring with me to London.

Within twenty-four hours, my mailbox was full again.

"Hunt! Let's go!"

I allow myself another breath. Then I put the phone away and apply one last coat of mascara. Shoulders pulled back, I tip my chin and head out into the living room.