Chapter Thirty-Six

Oh, God, make it stop! Make it stop!

Bomb shrapnel is piercing my skull. I’ve never felt pain like it. Whimpering, I reach out for a glass of water on my nightstand, but my fingers close around something damp, instead. And prickly…

That’s not normal.

I peel one eye open and stare, uncomprehendingly, at a neat row of red and yellow flowers. It takes me a moment to get my bearings, and then another to realize that I’m staring at the well-tended undergrowth that borders the hotel swimming pool.

Looking down, my worst suspicions are confirmed. I’ve just spent the night on one of the woven sun loungers outside.

Fully clothed.

Shameless.

What the hell did I do now?

Lifting my head with a groan, I survey the scenes of devastation all around me. The courtyard is littered with catatonic bodies and a recycling center’s yearly quota of bottles. Max is sprawled out across a hot pink floatie in the middle of the pool, snoring gently and clutching a cocktail glass to his chest like some Club Tropicana hooligan who sampled too many of the song’s eponymous free drinks. He’s lost all his clothes apart from a pair of black Calvins and one sock. The other has been hoisted to the top of an outside light fixture and is currently flying the colors for over-the-top decadence.

I think hard—as hard as my throbbing head will allow. I have a faint recollection of a conversation with Zoe, and then of a cockroach climbing the wall, but everything is a bit hazy after that. Automatically, my thoughts turn to Jake.

Jake.

The full force of his actions hit me like a punch to the gut, along with the aftereffects of seven flaming sambucas.

I stumble to my knees, throwing up all over the undergrowth. Not so pristine now. I retch and retch until there’s nothing left but bile. Afterward, I raise a trembling hand to my mouth and notice bruising around three knuckles. There are spider cracks of dried blood in-between, too, sending sharp, jagged spikes of pain up to my wrist. If it’s not my blood, I hope its Jake’s. I really, really hope I smacked him one.

Somehow, I make it to the outside staircase. It feels like some horror movie character is drilling holes in my brain, and I have to hold on tight to the banister as it starts spinning like a Hitchcock vortex.

Fifty-five steps and two dry heaves later, I’m slotting the keycard into my hotel room lock. Someone’s pushed a note under my door, but I kick it out of my way without reading it. Jake is everywhere. There’s a discarded white T-shirt of his hanging over the back of my chair, and his iPhone charger is sprawled across my desk. He’s still claiming my personal space, just as he claimed my thoughts, and I hate him, hate him, hate him for it.

Walking over to the bed, I yank the nearest pillow toward me and bury my face in it. Cedarwood. Citrus.

Liar.

That’s when his loss hits me like a diabetic’s sugar crash. My legs give out, and I slither to the floor in a crumpled heap.

I cry for the man I thought he was.

I cry for the man he’ll never be.

Just like my father.

I recall Brad Wilson’s warning in L.A. So many people tried to tell me the truth about Jake, and I ignored them all.

I lie on the floor for the longest time, until my rivers turn into oceans, until I’m hollow and exhausted and I can’t cry anymore.

Swiping at my cheeks, I crawl blindly toward the bed and drag myself up by the quilt. Picking up the telephone on the nightstand. I dial down to reception with shaking fingers.

There’s a click on the line and then a friendly voice is wishing me a good morning.

“I’d like to book a taxi, please.”

“Certainly, madam. For what time?”

“Straightaway. To the airport.” I pause for a beat and sniff loudly. “And I’d like to check out.”

“Not a problem. The paperwork will be waiting for you downstairs. Your taxi will be here shortly. Good day, madam.”

I hang up and survey my hotel room with a mixture of inertia and despair. Moments later, I’m flipping drawers like pancakes and hurling belongings into my suitcase. I’m in such a state that I don’t notice Rachel slipping into the room behind me.

“What’s going on, Charlie?” she asks softly.

She’s still wearing her party dress, and her bob is nowhere near as sleek as it was ten hours ago. I haven’t seen her since last night when I still had a wing and a prayer for Jake and me. I know it’s totally irrational, but for some reason this makes me really angry with her.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I c-came to s-see if you were okay,” she stammers, quailing at the look on my face. “What happened last night?”

“I woke up.” If bitterness were a pill, mine would be cyanide.

“Has this got something to do with Jake?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” I drawl, turning back to my suitcase.

“You walked up to him in the bar last night and punched him in the face. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“So, that’s how my hand got mashed up.” I examine my bleeding knuckles with a modicum of satisfaction. “I hope I gave him a black eye.”

“He’s mad and confused. Mostly confused. So am I.” Rachel is choosing her words carefully. She knows I’m a ticking emotional time bomb. “We’ve never talked about it, but you guys seemed good together.”

“Just an illusion,” I mutter. “A messed-up, cheating bastard illusion. Go ask him what Cassie was doing in his hotel suite last night.” I duck my head again so she can’t see my tears.

“Are you sure?”

I hate that she doesn’t sound surprised.

“I heard her voice. I heard what they said about me. He boomeranged right on back to her, just like you said he would! Now, if you don’t mind, I have a plane to catch and a life to get on with.”

Though fuck knows what I’m going to do with it.

She nods, accepting this. She doesn’t have a choice. “Will you keep in touch? With me, I mean,” she adds quickly.

I pause. Why am I treating Rachel like a co-conspirator here? None of this is her fault. Not one single thing.

“Oh God, of course I will.” Remorse starts seeping in through the cracks in my voice. “Promise you’ll call next time you’re in London? There’s a great wine bar near my apartment. Thanks again for everything.” I step forward to give her a hug.

“Take care of yourself, Charlie,” she says sadly, slipping her arms around my waist.

I always do.

I pause again in the doorway and stare down at the discarded note on the floor. I know it’s from Jake, but I have no intention of reading it. Instead, I make damn sure that it’s well and truly crushed under the wheels of my suitcase as I exit the room.