Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
This is the best I can do.
It's not enough.
But it's still the best I can do.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Eve
After my third Manhattan, my thoughts blur.
Ty keeps me entertained with British TV and takeaway. We order Indian food.
Ian was right. It's fucking amazing. Better than anything I've had in New York. Or maybe that's the Manhattans talking.
After a few hours of Agatha Christie adaptations, Ty cuts me off. He gives me space.
I change, shower, put myself to bed.
Wake up at three a.m. with a splitting headache and a painfully dry mouth. Sleep returns in fits. An hour here. Twenty minutes of what the fuck there.
I can't explain why I feel so betrayed. Ian had every right to read my site when he didn't know me. It's out there. It's a public site.
In theory…
I invited the entire world to read it.
But it's mine. My space to spill my ugly thoughts.
He knew that. He knew it was mine. He knew he was taking something that wasn't his.
Why was it okay when he didn't know me and wrong when he did?
Why didn't he tell me?
If he'd just told me…
I don't know. What would I have done if he told me?
Fuck. It's bright in here. Too bright.
And loud.
The air-conditioning is screaming.
I push myself out of bed. Shower. Brush my teeth twice. Fail to wipe away that fuzzy feeling. Manhattan, how could you fuck me like this?
I'm trying to get home to you. Okay, to Brooklyn, but close enough.
What's so great about alcohol anyway?
It's fun for a few hours. For a few drinks. But the second I cross that line—
It's nonstop misery.
Whose brilliant idea was it to fly across the Atlantic with a hangover?
Ugh.
Ty is in the main room. Awake and dressed in casual clothes. He looks at home in jeans and a t-shirt. But then he looks at home in his suit too.
"You look different without makeup," he says.
"You know you're not supposed to say that."
"I didn't say better."
"You didn't say worse."
His laugh is easy. "More vulnerable."
Is it that obvious?
"Prettier. But less yourself."
"Should I say thank you or fuck you?"
"Up to you."
"Maybe slap you. Just in case."
"Maybe." He half-smiles. "How did you sleep?"
I shake my head.
"There's a painkiller on the counter. Porridge on the stove. Ian says that's what you prefer."
"Yeah, thanks."
"He dropped something off."
My stomach seizes. My heart thuds against my chest. "He did?"
Ty nods. Rises from his spot on the couch. Moves to the kitchen island. A thermos—a tacky touristy one with a picture of Big Ben—filled with chai. And a small, leather-bound notebook.
"What is it?"
"He didn't tell me. Forbade me from reading it."
"Oh." My fingers brush the cover. It's faded. Worn. Like it's been through hell and back. Or been loved to death. Is there a difference?
"We have to leave in two hours. If that isn't enough time to pack—"
"No. I'm mostly packed. I just… Can you turn down the sun?"
He laughs. "I'll ring up God and get on that."
"Thanks. I appreciate it." Ugh. I find the sunglasses in my purse. Change into something presentable enough for the airport, apply a little lipstick, enough concealer I don't look like death. And while I'm at it, how about some thick eyeliner? And maybe blush too.
There. I still look tired, but in a fuck off way. Not a notice I'm heartbroken and offer to help way.
I linger in the quiet room. I need the space to myself. The distance from everything.
When I can't take the lack of caffeine anymore, I move into the main room.
The chai is still warm. And it's perfectly mixed too. A hint of honey, a lot of cardamom, enough almond milk it's rich and creamy.
I pick at my oatmeal. British style oatmeal is mushier than I like. And my stomach is not in the mood for food.
I know it will help, so I force myself to eat a few bites. Chase them with another ibuprofen and a tall glass of water.
The notebook is right there. Waiting for me. Begging me to peel it apart.
My fingers skim the edges. The leather tie holding them together. The papers inside. Thick. Like they're bursting from the pressure of the thoughts they contain.
I pick it up.
A sheet of paper falls to the counter.
A note. From Ian.
Eve,
You're right. I should have told you. I should have stayed away from your site after we met. I tried. But I wanted into your head too much.
It wasn't fair. I should have asked your permission.
I was a coward. I was weak. I have no excuse. I don't offer this as an excuse. Or even a fair exchange. I took your thoughts. I offer this freely. It's not equal or fair, but it's the best I can do.
I hope this explains things.
If you can't forgive me, I understand. If you're not willing to give me another chance, I understand. But I am going to ask you to try. Even though it's not fair. Even though I haven't earned your trust.