Page 71 of Not So Happily Ever After (British Bad Boys)
“I told you how it’s going to be at Uni from now on. No time for relationships. That’s why I wanted one last fling before going back.”
But even though that’s how it’s going to be until I graduate, the words are hollow, and my stupid heart cracks open.
“Right.” He doesn’t physically recoil, but the temperature seems to drop ten degrees. “Back to studying a subject you hate, for a degree you don’t want. Yeah, that sounds like a fucking good plan to me.”
I can’t believe he threw that in my face. My deepest secrets, which no one else but Brooklyn knows about, used as ammunition against me. I desperately need a scathing one-liner, a caustic retort to let him know what a total bastard move this is, but my mind’s folding up on itself, fetal like.
Fuck.
Not going to fall apart.
Too late.
Somehow, I locate my voice. “It is if I want afuckinggood career.” I grind the words between my teeth, but they’re meaningless.Because he’s right.
“You could have a great career with your art.”
My laugh sounds like the creaking gates of hell. “Yes, sure. This is the real world. I can’t make a decent living with my art.”
“How do you know that unless you try? You’ve got a real gift.”
I might have a gift, but my family’s never taken it seriously.
And neither has he. Not when I really needed him to.
“But no onecares. You couldn’t even make time to come to my one and only exhibition.”
No. How could I have said that out loud? Am I completely hopeless when it comes to him?Please don’t discuss this.Even now, I don’t want him guessing how deeply his non-appearance hurt.
“Exhibition?” A frown slashes his forehead, and it’s soul-crushingly obvious he doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about. “What do you mean?”
I exhale a harsh breath. I didn’t want to talk about this. Still don’t. But the knowledge my art meant so little to him that he’s completely forgotten that whispered, midnight promise, just about rips my heart to shreds.
Get over it, Mac.I’d already guessed as much.
Maybe. But there’s a world of difference in surmising and having the truth thrust down your throat like scorched earth.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Yes, it does.
Fine, then. “Boxing Day, after we first slept together. I waited in the snow fortwo hoursfor you to show up.” I even messaged him, but he didn’t respond.
And my pride hadn’t allowed me to mention my humiliation to him the next time we saw each other.
His frown deepens as comprehension finally dawns.Maybe he’ll apologize?Better late than never.
Then, incomprehensibly, his expression hardens and something I can’t figure out flares in his eyes. “Sorry. I forgot.” There’s a savage note in his tone that renders his apology into an accusation. “Like I told you. Shit happened.”
I don’t even know how to respond to that. “Fine. Whatever.”
We both glare across the room. Well, I’m glaring. I assume he is, given the rigid way he’s standing beside me, as though he’d love nothing better than to get the hell out of here.
That works for me.Bastard.
I surreptitiously press my finger against my nose, in the hope that it prevents any sniffling.Don’t let my eyes water.
He exhales an impatient breath and turns to me. I pretend not to notice. “You know what? You can’t keep blaming your mum because you’re too afraid to go after your dreams.”
