Page 78 of Unless It's You
The escalator takes me down below the streets. I swallow hard. It can’t be over. Can it?
True to her word,Gemma shows up at my basement flat at noon the next day, banging on the door and calling my name.
“Dammit.” I groan. I’d hoped she’d forget all about crashing my pity party, even though the multiple texts she sent last night should have clued me in otherwise. Ignoring them probably wasn’t the best idea. Maybe she would have let me wallow by myself if I’d assured her I’m okay.
I’d been smart enough not to ignore the texts from my sisters, because that would have guaranteed relentless video calls until I answered. But I know they think something is up. That it might be more than work and Evelyn’s bucket list.
I move slowly to a sitting position. I haven’t budged from my couch, where I relocated to at seven o’clock this morning. I’ve got the worst hangover, and it has nothing to do with the pint Ben got me at the pub, and everything to do with how I’ve completely fucked up my love life.
I’m the worst.
No word from Ethan. No answer to the text I sent when I got home last night:
Me
Can we talk tomorrow? I’m so sorry
He read it, but didn’t answer.
It’s over between us. I know this is the truth. Ethan doesn’t fuck around. There’s no way I can change his mind.
“Stella! I can literally see you through the window. Open your damn door.” Now Gemma’s banging on the window. Better let her in before she throws a metal chair from my patio through the glass.
As soon as the door’s open, Gemma throws her arms around me and hugs tightly, a food bag crinkling in her hand.
“Can’t breathe. Can you let go?” I squeak out.
“You’re talking, so you can breathe.” She releases me from her embrace and pushes her way past into the flat to assess the situation. “How are you? Have you showered today? Eaten? Changed your underwear?”
I tilt my head and raise my eyebrows. “No. It’s noon on a Sunday. And I’m offended you think I’d completely fall apart in, like, fourteen hours.”
“You’re kind of a disaster, so I was worried.” She looks me up and down, probably considering whether I’ll ever shower again. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I will let myself devolve into some kind of secluded hermit-rat who never leaves her flat. Why not?
Right. Because I have a job to go to.
“Let’s sit.” Gemma pulls me to the couch and pushes aside the crumpled blanket, then turns to me with an intense stare. “I brought almond croissants.” She holds up the paper bag before ripping it open and shaking a pair of pastries onto the table, flaky crumbs scattering.
“Oh, you’re amazing.” The smell is heavenly. One of my favorite London delicacies is train-station almond croissants.
“Now you like me, huh?” She sinks to the couch and rips into one of the croissants, the sweet almond insides squeezing out from the middle. “No word from Ethan?”
I turn my face to avoid answering.
“And how are we feeling about that today?” Her wide eyes look as serious as I’ve seen them.
I chew as slowly as possible, but she waits patiently for my response, and eventually I have to swallow.
“Awful. Like my heart’s been ripped out and thrown to a bunch of vicious foxes.”
“The foxes in London are not vicious, and you know that.” Gemma shoves the rest of her croissant in her mouth. “You got coffee?” Crumbs tumble out and I can’t help but giggle.
“You’re gonna make me get up again and be productive?” But I stand anyway.
“Making coffee on a Sunday afternoon is hardly being productive,” she says after swallowing.
I roll my eyes and head down the short hallway to my kitchen and the coffeemaker. Maybe lack of caffeine is part of the reason I feel like such garbage. Gemma follows me and leans against the doorframe.
“You gotta get him to talk to you, girl.”
