Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
It doesn’t matter that I have a view from a bigger apartment, a stocked fridge, and a closet full of tailored suits. I’m still returning to a place where I’ll be alone again, left to think about the one who got away.
CHAPTER 14
PRESENT DAY
SOSIE
The cold is not a welcome companion tonight, but here it is smacking me in the face as soon as the doorman opens the door for me and I step outside. I stop in repulse and pull my coat’s belt tighter, even knowing it will wrinkle my dress at the waist. It’s dinner and then a company holiday party. If someone’s going to judge me for having wrinkles in the fabric, then that’s their issue to deal with, not mine.
“It’s cold out,” Gregory says, standing beside the car, rubbing his leather-clad hands together. When he smiles, it’s not as roguish as Keats and doesn’t make me weak in the knees. I resigned myself to my fate six months ago when we made an agreement to get our parents off our backs, giving us time to get our lives sorted and figure out what we want. But I’m not feeling it anymore.
My body itches for a life that I haven’t experienced, to travel again and not look back this time, to disappear from under the Stansbury microscope for once in my life. Why does everything feel so out of sorts today? I’m struggling to keep up appearances. Maybe it’s the day—Christmas Eve again—coming around like clockwork to haunt me, or maybe I’m becoming too intolerant to play this game anymore. Like the cold, here I am doing it anyway.
How did we even get here?
We’ve taken it too far. At almost twenty-seven, I’ve been so hindered by fear of striking out on my own that I ended up locking myself in the gilded cage I was always afraid of. The next time the door swings open, I need to fly away and try, instead of living this lie any longer.
Bundled up in a long light gray wool coat and plaid scarf, I swear if he tells me that’s his family’s tartan pattern, I’ll lose it. I don’t hate him. I hate what I’ve become as his fake girlfriend.
“It is cold,” I reply, making polite small talk like we’re strangers. For two people who have known each other most of our lives, we are in the ways that matter. We’re friends who are good at pretending, but acquaintances when it comes to our personal lives. I was once foolish enough to believe in happily ever afters. That ending is only reserved for the lucky ones. Not me.
Sliding my hand over my hair on the sides, I’m hoping no strands have escaped my French twist. I start down the stairs again, trying to adjust the mood that rolled in like an afternoon storm, hitting me before I could run for cover. It settled into my day and hung around like a fog, refusing to lift no matter how I tried to turn things around after that.
People wanting to celebrate my birthday should be fun, even if it is celebrated on the wrong day for their convenience and not mine. Right, Sosie? I should appreciate the gesture, but along with my birthday comes the memory of the one who got away. That’s what Keats Matthews became when he left me at the Plaza.
Most people wouldn’t see being left as a good thing, but I like that his principles remained intact. Sure, I would have liked it to turn out differently between us, and I've imagined what our lives might have been many times if we had stayed together. But how can I be mad at him when I left him with nothing but memories the first time? I know he didn’t leave because he was seeking revenge. He left because I gave him no reason to stay.
My regrets have troubled me ever since.
But I can’t turn back time. I chose a path. Made a choice and then another that led to where I am now. Is it too late to detour?
When I walk into Gregory’s hands, he grabs my arms, and we exchange cheek kisses. “You look pretty, Sosie.” He lingers against my cheek like he always does and then shifts as if I’ve changed my mind for our lips to meet instead.
“Thank you and for the ride,” I say, slipping out of his hold and into the back of the black Cadillac.
“Of course.” The door is closed before I can reach for it. And if the way it was slammed is any indicator, he’s not too happy with me.
Gregory slides into the car next to me and tells the driver. “We can go.” When he sits back, he looks at me. “Happy birthday.”
“Thanks.” There’s no zip of excitement or thrill of celebration. I almost feel numb to it all at this point. What am I doing? Is this because I watched a stupid movie? Stop comparing. Most people don’t get a wrapped-up package with a perfectly tied bow as an ending. Why am I trying so hard to convince myself that I have options? My options are to walk away from everything I know or stay and do as I’m told.