My hand shakes as I reach for the card and pull it from its little envelope.
I’m sorry for your loss.
Yours.
C x
I gasp, my eyes burning with tears as I stare at his handwriting and the small sketch of a dandelion in the corner of the card. It’s the same as my tattoo.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Corey
Colton tried to stop me as I marched toward him in my need to escape that building and her. But nothing was going to.
A red haze had descended, and I couldn’t see my way through it, let alone figure out a way to make it leave.
My heart raced, my hands trembling with my need to break something, hurt someone.
And all for what?
Because she tried to help me.
I threw her car keys at the receptionist as I left the building and took off on foot. Driving over here surrounded by her scent was bad enough. I couldn’t bear it again.
I walked for hours, trying to regulate my breathing and talk myself down. I shouldn’t have gone marching in there like that. I should have waited until later and we could have talked it out in private. But I was just too fucking angry.
I ended up on the beach, where I sat and watched the waves crash onto the shore, trying to figure out where I—we—go from here.
I should have swallowed my pride and picked her up from work as planned and allowed her to explain. But my fear of her looking at me like a charity case was too much to bear. I told myself that nothing had changed, but it didn’t matter.
All these questions spun around in my head. How much did that all cost? Where did she get that kind of money from? How the hell am I going to pay her back?
But none of them were important enough to get me moving.
The time for her to finish work came and went, and I still sat down on the beach in an angry daze.
When I did move, it was only because the tide was coming in and I had little choice.
I stopped at a store on the way back to my flat and found myself a bottle of whisky—no Macallan, there’s no way I could stomach that—and I spent the rest of the night drinking myself into oblivion.
Aside from turning up to the shop still smelling of the previous night’s alcohol, that’s pretty much how I spend the next four days: losing myself in work or whisky. I’m not sure what else to do to numb the pain of walking away from her. When I told her that being with her makes me feel free in a way I’d never experienced before, I don’t think I had totally appreciated just how true that was. But without her, I’m drowning.
My alcohol-induced nightmares are worse than ever, and each time I wake from one, my chest heaving and covered in a sheen of sweat, she’s the first thing I look for. But all that stares back at me is an empty bed.
I spend the week almost like I’m back in England and fighting to get through each day. I thought I’d left this feeling of loneliness and desperation behind; turns out it was just in wait, ready to knock me back down to Earth once again.
I guess that’s what happens when you try to outrun your demons. They find you eventually.
By Friday, I’m exhausted. My sleep is almost as bad as it’s ever been, and my hangovers are starting to roll into one giant one. I’ve no idea where one day ends and another begins.
Work is the only time the voices in my head lessen. I need to go to her. We need to talk. But I’m no good to anyone like this.
I’m a fucking mess, and I won’t allow her to try to bring me back to life. I need to figure out a way to do that for myself. I refuse to be that dependent on her, or anyone.
It’s almost the end of the day and I’m already dreading having to go home and be alone and for the walls to close in on me once again. A commotion out in the studio reception has me pausing as I tidy everything away for the night, but I don’t bother to go and look. It’s probably just Oz and JJ causing a scene once again.
I’m not expecting a knock at my door, but when it comes, I call out for whomever it is to enter.
Assuming it’s one of the guys who knows better than to just storm in with the mood I’ve been in this week, I continue with what I’m doing. Only, when a throat clears behind me, I’m forced to look over my shoulder to see who’s there.
“C-Colton? How’s it going?” I guess that explains the excitement on the other side of the door.
“I’m good, man.”
“I thought you’d want Sledge if you were after some more ink.”
“I’m not. I’m here for you.”
“Okay, well get up on the chair then,” I say, halting my tidying up if he needs me to do something.
“Nah, not like that, man. We need to talk.”
“Ah,” I say, realisation hitting me. “Rylee sent you?”
He shrugs and looks a little guilty. “Yes and no. There’s a bar down the street. Shall we?”
“Sure.” Abandoning my studio as it is, I follow him out.
He says his goodbyes to Sledge and JJ, who looks up at him as if she’s imagining climbing him like a tree, and we head across the street.
“So to what do I owe this pleasure?” I ask when he places two glasses and a bottle of scotch in the center of the table we’ve taken over.
“How are you doing?”
“I didn’t really have you down as the heart-to-heart kind.”
“Trust me, I’m not.” He blows out a breath as he swirls his glass and watches the amber liquid race around. “Harlow’s aunt died.”
My heart drops, and sadness washes through me. Losing another family member is the last thing she
