Forest: Yes or no?
Holden: I’ll tell you the same thing I told her. Of fucking course. I’d be offended you asked if I was the type who got offended.
Forest: A yes is sufficient.
Holden: And boring.
Forest: You have it all figured out, huh?
Holden: No. But more than you.
Forest: I’m getting there.
Holden: We’ll see.
I guess we will.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Skye
Fuck, my head is pounding.
I guess that’s what I get for drinking my weight in vodka. Hooray, alcoholism.
Is this how drunks feel all the time? Between the pounding head and the churning stomach, it’s too much. I quit. Day two of my addiction and I’m already out.
I already know it won’t help.
The shower is warm. It should feel safe, comforting, cleansing. It washes the booze from my skin, rinses the last remnants of chlorine, erases the scent of the hotel’s shampoo.
I step out of the shower clean. Physically. But mentally? Emotionally?
Everything hurts.
A glass of water and a pain killer push the headache away, but they do nothing to ease the weight in my chest.
Forest is… I’m not sure what he is. Only that he isn’t mine anymore.
God, I can only remember half of what I said. A lot of crying. A desperate plea. That sad look in Forest’s eye. I’m sorry. I don’t love you. I wish I could say I love you, but it’s just not the case.
I can’t blame him. The heart wants what it wants. His heart wants Mackenzie. He’s probably in her hotel room right now. Finally getting the best kind of revenge—her, on her back, moaning his name.
Or is it her on her knees, begging for his cock?
Though, I—
God, I don’t know what I think anymore. That isn’t the Forest I know. He’s hurt, sure. Angry, yeah. But he isn’t petty or vindictive.
He doesn’t even want her.
Does he?
Honestly, I’m not sure anymore.
I head downstairs. Fix a matcha latte. Add extra honey.
Sweet, creamy perfection. But it’s empty. It’s nothing.
The couch is clear. Except for the pillow and the folded blanket, there’s no sign Holden was ever here.
Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe this was a bad dream. Maybe if I pinch myself, I’ll wake up.
No such luck. I’m still sitting at the kitchen counter, squinting from the too bright sun, seeking comfort in my tea.
At least Dad gets that. He’s a smart guy. He knows what matters. Love. Family. Tea.
I mean, there’s the whole medical school doctor salary thing too.
But, really, the love of tea is the biggest sign of his wisdom.
Besides, my life is going somewhere. Sure, it took me a while, but I’m getting there.
I have another twenty-five hundred dollars on the way, come July fifth.
And I have another hundred thousand follows. Since I started posting sexy lingerie pics. They’re popular.
I guess a lot of people want to see bigger girls in sexy underwear.
Or maybe they want sexy underwear.
Or something to fuck themselves to.
Or even a designated ugly fat friend (Instagram star?) to make themselves feel better.
Hey, if seeing a chubby goth chick makes them feel better about themselves, who am I to judge?
It’s still a follower. Still a way to demand more from the next brand who asks me to “influence.”
Hell, I can start approaching brands myself. Find an agent. All that stuff.
I will.
And I’m going to expand my photography.
And move out of this house.
But not today.
Today is for wallowing.
I fix another latte. Stare out the window as I drink it.
It’s too bright. It’s a beautiful day—big lemon sun, clear blue sky, homeless guy sleeping on our porch?
Huh?
This is Venice, yeah, but this part is all residential. The neighbors are quick to call the cops.
If this guy—
At least I can warn him the cops are probably on their way.
I push the window open. “Hey.” But that isn’t some random hobo.
It’s Forest.
He’s leaning against the front door, his head resting on the railing, his hoodie lying on his lap like a blanket.
What the fuck?
“Neighbors call the police when they see strange men sleeping in doorways,” I say.
His eyes blink open. He stirs. For a moment, his eyes meet mine and his lips curl into a smile.
Then everything hits him and his smile disappears.
Yeah, I know that feeling.
“What about strange hot men?” His voice lifts.
“Can they tell you’re hot from here?”
“Maybe if I do this.” He stands. Drops his hoodie. Pulls his t-shirt over his head.
There’s—
His—
What—
“You…” My eyes go to his chest. I… He… But…
“I did.”
“But?”
“You eat breakfast, princess. Let me make you something. You must have a hell of a hangover.”
“But—”
“You can see it better if I come inside.”
“But Mackenzie… it’s—” I check the time on the microwave. “She’s getting married in an hour.”
“I know.”
“You’re supposed to be there. Unless you burst into her room last night and told her it was her last chance, that she could run away with you now or lose your forever.”
“I did that then came here?”