Page 64 of When Stars Collide
“And that explains why she was so hard on Luke and me for being in any kind of serious relationship, whatsoever.”
“It’s also why we missed ten years of our lives together,” Luke added, sighing.
“What? Ten years? How did you miss ten years of your lives together?” Mark asked.
If only he had any idea the can of worms he was opening.
Elle and Luke shared a knowing glance. “Do you want to tell him, or do you want me to?” Luke asked.
Elle squeezed Luke’s hand. “I will.”
For the next several minutes, Elle recounted to her father the tale of her life as Betsy Sloan’s daughter, including the emotional abuse she’d endured whenever Betsy hit the bottle, which had been basically every day. Mark listened intently, asking questions where appropriate and tearing up where also appropriate, especially as Elle told the story of her breakup with Luke at Betsy’s behest and the inadequacies she’d felt from the mental poison Betsy had injected into her every day. She further described her loveless marriage to a prominent local attorney and Luke’s car accident, resulting in the diagnosis of amnesia that ultimately served as the catalyst for their reunion. It was a story that, despite all its heartbreak, ended with the best outcome imaginable.
“Elle, I-I don’t know where to begin to tell you how sorry I am for … well, for everything you had to endure your entire life. If I could go back in time, I would make things right for you. I would have given you the stability you deserved. I would have told you what a wonderful, smart young lady you were becoming, so there wouldn’t have been any doubt in your mind. I’d do anything to change the way things ended up and give you two the life you deserved to have together. I’m so sorry.”
“There’s no need for you to apologize,” Elle eked out through her sobs.
For the first time that night, I felt like a spectator at the table. By this point, Mark, Elle, and Luke were all in tears, silently trying to compose themselves while also searching for the right words to say to one another to lighten the mood at the table. It soon became obvious those words weren’t going to come from any of the three of them. It was my moment to shine.
“Well, I’ll be damned, Mark, these are some fine mushrooms.”
*****
The plastic chair wobbled underneath me as I propped my feet against the railing of the balcony outside of my hotel room. A gentle breeze caressed my face, sending wayward strands of hair into the air. Chilled, I shivered, more invigorated than uncomfortable. It was getting late, past midnight. Yet, I couldn’t sleep. Not with the adrenaline running through my body. If I was this worked up, I could only imagine the path Elle must be wearing through the carpet. If I were being honest, though, it wasn’t only the events of tonight keeping me awake. It was Peter.
For the first few days after our breakup, all I could do was cry and try to hide my tears from Jo. Of course, there was no hiding anything from Jo, who wanted to know everything that had transpired that precipitated our breakup, forcing me to revisit everything that had happened over the last few months. Everything I could have done differently, and everything I couldn’t have. All the revisiting led me to the conclusion that there wasn’t anything I could have done at all, because everything that was said and done was because of me. Peter just didn’t want me. That realization brought about a wave of pain that had been almost too much for me to bear without, again, breaking down into a heaping mess of tears.
Just as I began to feel sorry for myself for the umpteenth time this month, my phone pinged from inside of my room, signaling the receipt of a text message.
Peter? Who else could it be this late? Don’t run to it, Mena. Let him wait it out. Maybe even let him stew until morning. That would show him.
As much as I wanted to heed my own advice, my legs wouldn’t allow it. Before I could stop myself, I jumped up from the flimsy chair, knocking it over.
Jesus, Mena, show a modicum of restraint.
My phone sat on top of the nightstand, and in my rush to grab it, I nearly threw it across the room when it slipped from my fingers. Luckily, it landed on the bed. Without shame, I dove onto the mattress to grab it.
Don’t respond to him right away. Or do. Just don’t come across as too desperate. Just don’t … wait a minute.
“Phineas?” Why would Phineas be sending me a text this late at night? He hated texts. There was only one way to find out.
Phineas: I’m sorry it’s so late. My hope is you’re already sleeping and won’t see this until morning. I was just up working (I know, I know), and I wanted to see how it went with Elle and her dad. Text me in the morning.
Me: I’m still awake, so you’re getting your text now. Everything went as well as it could go with Elle and her dad. Thanks for checking. Now stop working and go to bed. I thought you weren’t a fan of texting?
The odd thing was, as much as I wanted it to be Peter, I wasn’t exactly disappointed that it was Phineas, which did nothing to halt the emotional roller coaster I had been on.
Phineas: I’m older than you and should be the one telling you to go to bed. Glad to hear all is well.I make exceptions to my texting rule every now and then.
A sudden knock on my door startled me, and even though I knew in my head it couldn’t be Peter, my heart wanted me to be wrong.
“I figured you’d still be up,” Elle greeted me when I opened the door.
“And I figured you’d be sound asleep with about an inch of drool pooling underneath your face by now.”
“I’ll have you know I don’t do that … every night.” She entered the room as I held the door open for her. “What’s with the clear disappointment on your face? Expecting a stripper?”
“Not unless Peter changed professions.”
