Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
6
BROOKE
As luck would have it, I get served by an amazing flight attendant at the check-in counter who upgrades my reservation to a first-class seat on my flight to New York City.
First class. This new life is looking better already.
Unfortunately, the flight is delayed several hours, but because I am flying first class, I get to enjoy the delay in the first-class lounge.
Entering the lounge is like entering a different planet. It’s quiet and relaxing and everything screams luxury. From the plush lounge suite and recliner chairs to the gleaming bar of free alcohol, a full barista service, and a breakfast buffet beneath steaming silver cloches.
But my stomach is still churning with anticipation for my new adventure, so I skip the food and opt for a black coffee instead. I sit in a recliner chair by the ginormous windows overlooking the airport below and people-watch while I sip my coffee and tell myself I’m going to be okay.
On the way to the airport, I realized I hadn’t replied to Wilson’s text message from yesterday. There had been too much to say, too many questions to ask, and in the end, it was too overwhelming to even acknowledge the message.
But standing at the precipice of my new life without him, I feel calm and ready to reply.
Fuck you. I deserve more than two words.
I send the text but don’t hold out much hope for him getting it. To avoid the flood of phone calls and text messages he’s probably ditched the phone by now. Fucking coward. But to my surprise, three little dots appear, signaling he’s typing a message.
I don’t hesitate. I hit the call button. If he’s typing a message, then he’s got his phone in his hand, and he won’t miss this call. But he doesn’t answer, so I quickly type a one-word message.
Coward.
Seconds later, my phone rings.
“I’m not a coward,” he barks at me.
“Then why the fuck are you running away?”
“It all got too much.”
Like I said, loser, you’re a coward.
It’s hard to keep the edge out of my voice despite being in the middle of a flight lounge. “Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m sorry, babe.”
“You’ve said that already,” I growl. “What the hell is going on?”
I glance around the passenger lounge. It’s slowly filling up, so I flee to the bathroom—which is thankfully empty, so I don’t lose my shit in front of an audience.
“The less you know, the better,” he says.
“What does that even mean?”
“It means I couldn’t do it, babe.”
Jesus, if he calls me babe one more time, I’m going to reach through this phone and strangle him.
“Tell me what happened,” I demand, fed up with going around in circles.
“I had to get out of the city. Don’t push me for more information. Not now. Just… forget about me.”
My head swirls with a thousand questions, but they’re all jumbled. So, because I don’t know what to say, I blurt out, “I know about Laura.”
His breath hitches, and he’s silent for a moment. Probably coming up with some kind of lie.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he blames it all on me.
“You know we weren’t working. It became boring.”
His words hit me in the center of my chest, and I have to rub the pain away.
“Boring…?”
“You have to agree, babe. We were in a rut. There was no spontaneity anymore. No excitement. Of course, I went looking elsewhere.”
I’m so gob-smacked I can’t speak.
“But I didn’t love her. Or the others.”
The others?
Jesus Christ.
Finally, the tears I couldn’t bring myself to cry yesterday rush forward and stream down my cheeks as I listen to my ex-fiancé tell me all the reasons why he couldn’t marry me.
Who even is this man?
“When I met you, you were exciting and wild. Now you’re… predictable and… vanilla.”
And just like that, I stop crying and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I’m gaunt, and I have panda eyes, but I am not fucking vanilla.
I decide Wilson doesn’t have anything of value to tell me, so I hang up on him.
For good.
For a moment I just stare in the mirror, then I exhale a slow, shaky breath because I know I’m going to be okay. No matter what, I know I deserve better than what was on the other end of that phone call.
Thanks to a startling variety of toiletries available in the bathroom, I’m able to wash my face and fix my appearance, and by the time I re-enter the lounge, I feel composed and calm and ready to put that loser in my rearview mirror for good.
Goodbye, asshole.
Whatever feelings I had for him have been snuffed out by one simple act of selfishness and have vanished without a trace.
I feel nothing.
No, that’s not true. I feel ready to move on.
Thankfully, my recliner seat is still vacant when I return to the flight lounge, and I curl up and let my gaze drift over the sea of passengers moving around on the ground floor below us.