Page 7 of Revival

He bites the inside of his cheek, hollowing out the shape.

“Goodbye, Cortney.”

1

Cortney

Eight monthslater

I’ve madeit my mission to drink as many free mimosas as possible before I land in the sunny Caribbean. The heartache built up in my chest threatens to crack wide open with each second closer to takeoff, and I need something to ease the growing split before I dash straight off this plane.

My fingers tighten around my cell as it vibrates with an incoming text.

Sebastian

Please don’t go

Sebastian

I’ll come after you. If it’s the grand gesture you want, I’ll do it. Because you mean that much to me.

I avoid lookingup the aisle toward the door. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to board this plane. And if he did, god help the unholy rage I would unleash on his unfaithful, lying ass.

Forcing myself to loosen the hold I have on my phone, I swipe over to the video I’ve seen probably a hundred times. The clear footage of Sebastian plowing his assistant into my living room couch plays on a loop. Even without the sound turned on, I can still hear her exaggerated moans echoing through my head. The fake screech drives a stake into my battered heart.

How do I know it’s fake? Because there isn’t a passionate bone in that man’s body—including the one in his pants.

“Honey, why the frown?”

I startle and find the source of the voice to my right. “I’m sorry?”

“In all my years, I’ve never seen someone look so morose heading to a vacation.”

Vacation? More like failed honeymoon.

My lips twitch in a forced smile. “This isn’t exactly the vacation I had planned.”

“Nothing a few cocktails and a sandy beach can’t cure, I’m sure.” The woman states her beliefs like she’s reading them straight from the Bible.

I look from my phone to her face, catching her tucking a gray curl behind her ear as she waits expectantly for my reply. Inhaling the stale air pumped into the cabin, I drop my gaze back to the clip playing in a short loop.

“I think it’s going to take a bit more than that.”

“What’s that?” She flips a wrinkled hand out at my phone. “Are you watching one of those reality TV shows? Those are my guilty pleasure!”

“No, it’s not—”

“Bring it over here,” she demands, leaning into the aisle to better see my phone.

I don’t know what comes over me. Maybe I’m trying to scare her away or maybe I want someone to commiserate with my pain, but I move from seat 3A to 3B and hand my phone to the older woman in 3C.

She drags her silver, rhinestone glasses from her hair to the bridge of her nose and studies the clip.

“Oh! I haven’t seen this one. Is thisLove is Blind?”

“No, this isI was blind, season forty-one,” I mutter. I wave at a flight attendant. “Can I get a mimosa?”

“One for me too, please!” My meddlesome neighbor peers down her nose at the small screen. “Why does it keep cutting short? I want to see more.”

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