Page 15 of Leah

“I miss you,” I whispered to a photo of us, running my thumb over his face. “I miss my best friend.”

With a heavy heart, I very slowly placed them back into the box, making sure they were neatly positioned. There was an old watch of his that I kept, only discovering it on his dresser after he’d left. I kept it because there was that faint smell of him lingering on the leather band. I brought it to my nose and lightly sniffed it. Maybe it was my head conjuring up the smell because it’d been so long, but I felt the nostalgia just the same.

When I finished, I returned the box beneath the bed and climbed back under the light covers. Then I sat there some more before I grabbed my laptop from the nightstand.

You can call it stalking, but I prefer the termcuriositybeing the reason I looked up Carter online. I’d never done it before. It would have interfered in my getting over him stage, so I’d done well distancing myself from the internet where it was a playground for Carter Matheson articles.

Now, before anyone thinks I’m a loser that is falling into the trap of obsessing over Carter again, I’d like to make a case against that. I wasn’t pathetic like I used to be. Simply put, there are residual feelings you get from every important moment in life because it was a part of you, and completely burying it isn’t likely to work.

I’d like to think I’d moved on, mostly. I didn’t pine for him like I used to. If anything, I felt like I’d woken up the second he left to travel down a path that might have ultimately led him to his early grave.

I saw things for the first time. I wasn’t in a love-sick daze. I was a realist, learning very early on that love didn’t exist the way I thought it did. I had deluded myself into believing in a fairy-tale romance, where men gave you their hearts without pause, and women swooned into their arms and stayed there forever.

Happily-ever-after with another man was a dream that needed to be burned and mutilated.

I learned to makemyselfhappy.

Learned to depend onmyabilities.

I made money and had a good nest egg in case of rainy days. I experienced a whole array of firsts on my own: finishing school at the top of my class, buying my own car, paying my own bills, having my own credit card… I didn’t need a man there to hold my hand. I didn’t need to walk on eggshells because of their attitude changes. I walked into a relationship with eyes wide open, and the second they treated me less than I deserved, I dropped their asses faster than a grenade.

So, I didn’t like to think of this as a moment of complete weakness. I wasn’t vulnerable and my heart wasn’t bleeding for him, but I needed another dose of Carter after watching him fuck the crowd with his eyes.

Perhaps I wanted closure, to know for sure that he’d moved on. I wondered if he was so well into his fame that he forgot allabout me, and us. Our time together seemed like such a lifetime ago, when in reality it had been only three years.

There’s something particularly odd the moment Google rewards you with 4,510,000 results. It’s sort of awhat-the-fuckkind of moment. The face I’d stroked infinite times looked older, more chiselled. He got a few tattoos, was broader than he’d ever been, and I wasn’t sure if it was Photoshop, but his abs looked especially impressive. To think, I’d run my tongue down those abs, tasted the sweat off his skin, ran my nails into his back as we came together.

I chewed on my nail as I scrolled through the images, ignoring that disappointed part of me for giving in.

Don’t you remember what an addiction is? That’s what he was to you, and now you’re about to relapse.

Ignoring that deluded voice that knew nothing, my impulse meandered into the videos territory. It was a bad territory—I needed more alcohol. Did I have any left hiding in my barren cupboards? Probably not, but it was okay.

I’d make do somehow.

Liar.

It felt like a cement truck had settled on top of my chest when I listened to the first interview. The floodgates opened, and a tidal wave of emotions ran through me.

This was a natural reaction, I reassured myself.

I let out a breath of air and quivered hearing his voice, deep and smooth, answering questions from a hair twirling reporter that giggled for no reason.

She leaned over to supposedly hear him better, pouring her cleavage out in front of him in the process. He seemed entirely immune to her gestures, that signature smirk playing at his lips as he answered. His responses were often short and void of any real information.

He seemed to be exceptional at dodging the hard stuff.

“Is there a moment in your life that stands out to you the most that influenced your decision in becoming a musician?” she asked, and it was her first serious question in her list of craptacular “what’s your favourite colour” type of ones.

“I never wanted to be a musician,” Carter answered, leaning back in his leather chair. “I was thrown into it.”

“By who?” she eagerly asked, looking like she’d hit the mother-load. He’d clearly never said anything this personal before.

He paused and absently scratched his jaw, his eyes moving away from hers. “By someone I don’t know anymore.”

“No names? I’m sure that person would be happy to hear your thanks, Carter.”

He chuckled sardonically. “She’d probably nuke that thanks, that’s the way she is. In all seriousness, the past should stay in the past.”

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