“You were going to propose.”
“I’m well aware,” I say, dusting off a piece of lint from my pants. “But despite the love I have for her, it doesn’t outweigh the hate she has for me. There’s no turning back, no changing her mind. The damage has been done. It’s time to let her go.”
“Are you sure?” Killian asks.
I nod. “I’m sure.”
Killian: Just landed. I feel guilty as hell. Please reconsider. Come home. Be with me and Cleo.
I read the text from Killian from my spot on the kitchen floor. I’ve been here ever since I toppled over while attempting to prepare my delivered dinner, thanks to the slippery rug in front of the sink.
Luckily, I landed on my good side, leaving me with minimal pain.
This is going to be so much fucking harder than I expected.
But . . . I welcome the purgatory.
Pike: I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Call you tomorrow.
I set my mobile to the side and roll to my back so I’m staring up at the ceiling. My eyes slip shut, and I resign myself to lying here for the rest of the night on the cold, tiled floor of my kitchen, because I don’t have enough energy to get myself off the ground. Basically? I’m fucked.
Chapter Twenty-Four
CORA
I stare at the brownstone I so quickly fell in love with. The shades are drawn, the courtyard is empty—his motorcycle is probably in some junkyard by now—and not a single light is on.
When I casually asked Keiko about Pike the other day, she said Killian was trying to convince Pike to fly back to England with him. From the look of the dark windows, I would say Killian did a good job convincing him. Then again, it’s not as if Pike had anything to stick around for.
After the accident and my decision to have divorce papers drawn up, I asked Greer and Stella to grab my things from the brownstone so I didn’t have to. Being the amazing friends that they are, they brought all my boxes back to my studio apartment . . . with the help of my brother.
Surprisingly, Arlo hasn’t said much to me. He’s asked me how I’m doing, he’s hugged me, he’s checked in on where I stand with Pike, but other than that, he’s been quite contemplative. I asked Greer how he was doing, thinking maybe he was holding it together in front of me, but she said he’d been very quiet.
Everyone has been . . . quiet.
I haven’t talked much and neither have my friends.
Keiko doesn’t even answer text messages now. Only phone calls. And those phone calls are painful. She rattles on so much to avoid the topic of Pike that the last time I called her, I ended up listening to her describe to me—in detail—the intricacies of how her nose is growing with her pregnancy.
It was far too disturbing.
Thankfully, Stella and Greer have given me space to figure things out. And what I figured out is I can’t sit back and mourn this loss. I need to move forward with my life, which means I need to make the final split with Pike.
From the passenger seat of my car, I pick up my purse—which has the divorce papers inside—and sling it over my shoulder. I’m not sure when Pike will be back, if he went to England, or what’s happening with him, but I know if I hold on to these papers any longer, I’m never going to be able to move forward.
Also, the girls left a few things behind and I want to grab them, as well.
I make my way to the front door, unlock it, and let myself in. Thankfully it seems like no one is home.
I’m met with a pitch-dark room. Unfamiliar still with the space, I run my hand along the textured wall until I stumble across a light switch. I flip it on and shut the door behind me. When I turn back around, I walk down the hallway to the dining room— “What are you doing here?”
“Ahhhhh,” I scream, jumping back against the wall and clutching at my chest.
Pike is sprawled across the floor of the kitchen, looking like he’s in extreme pain.
“Wh-what are you doing on the floor?” I ask, catching my breath.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says quietly. “What are you doing here?”
The last thing I expected to see was Pike, let alone on the floor in the dark. My heart is racing.
“I, uh . . .” I swallow hard and slowly lower my hand. “I was dropping something off and grabbing some makeup that I left in the bathroom.”
He slowly nods. “Don’t let me bother you.” He lowers his head and continues to rest on the floor.
Unsure of what’s going on and thrown off by seeing him when I expected the place to be empty, I awkwardly slide along the wall and head into the dining room, pausing there to look back at the kitchen. I can’t see him, because of the island, but . . . what is he doing on the floor?