Page 90 of Winning Match
“I’m going to stay at Andrés’s place tonight. We’re going to Barcelona tomorrow. It will give you a few days to…make arrangements.”
Make arrangements. Like it’s a funeral.
Although, in some ways, I suppose it is.
The death of us. The end of our relationship.
And I am blindsided. Bowled over. Shocked.
Not because I didn’t see it coming. No, I’ve felt Alejandro pulling away for weeks. The same way Gerard did.
Distance and space and disconnect.
But I didn’t think Ale would outright reject me. Would push me away. Would say something as ridiculous as “things have run their course.”
Not when we came together the way we did. Not when I offered myself—all of me—up to him. Not when I…not when I fell in love with him.
Utterly, hopelessly, desperately in love. It never felt like this with Gerard. It’s never felt like this, period.
And now it’s…over.
“I’ll have Callie draft a press release in a few days,” he continues, prattling away as if I’m not dying inside. Not buckling from the weight of his words and the pain of his cruel carelessness. He’s practically dismissive in his matter-of-factness. As if this was the expected outcome.
The one we both knew was coming even though—everything fucking changed!
I want to shove my palms against his chest. I want to wail and cry and…fight.
Instead, I do nothing. I stare at him with disbelief. I’m reliving my life from only two months ago.
Déjà vu slams into me. Did I make my connection with Ale a bigger thing in my mind because I was reeling from Gerard? Did I read the signs wrong?
At the thinly veiled concern in Ale’s eyes, I don’t think so.
But…I don’t trust my judgment anymore. How can I?
I follow him like a stranded puppy as he throws clothing into a bag. I’m silent but present. A shadow he can’t shake.
I note the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he won’t meet my gaze.
“I’ll see you in a few days,” he murmurs as he shoulders his bag and stalks to the door. “We’ll figure out the details then.” His eyes flicker to mine. Electric green with flecks of gold.
God, he’s beautiful. Devastatingly so.
For a moment, his expression is stricken. Agony blazes from his eyes and his lips twist, heartache in their outline.
But in the next blink, he’s concealed it, and I wonder if I imagined it. Imagined the entire whirlwind that swept me up, made me fall for him, and now dropped me, unceremoniously, alone. Again.
“Adios, Marlowe.”
The door snicks closed behind him and I reach for it, my palm sliding down the wood until I’m on the floor, my knees jarring in pain, my forehead bent to the cool tiles. The tears that rise in me are storm surges of waves, overwhelming, debilitating, and intense.
I cry, my mouth wide open but no sound emerges. Instead, my hurt rings like a siren in my eardrums.
Lying on the floor, I roll to stare at the ceiling and wonder how my life took such a sharp turn. How am I supposed to navigate it now, without him?
Bianca doesn’t let me down. No, my girl keeps the tequila coming and I am grateful.
After my third shot, my sobs are more like whimpers. By my fourth, I’m slurring my speech, my mind blissfully numb.
