Page 35 of Play the Part (Marsford Bay #2)

CONNIE

T he chill crawling through my veins as I watch Huxley walk away has nothing to do with the cold wind blowing through the flimsy fabric of my dress.

My eyes sting with the threat of tears, and I bite down on my quivering lip to make it stop. I never meant for this to happen. I would have never brought Huxley here if I knew there was any chance Oliver would show up.

In Marsford Bay, of all places?

I’ve never been good with words—scripted words, yes—but those that come from the heart? It feels like any time I try to explain myself to Huxley, I just end up making it worse.

The more I linger on the feeling of failing Huxley once again, the more it turns into an acute sense of loneliness.

A soul-deep pattern of always feeling misunderstood.

People see what they want to see, but do they ever really see me?

My vision turns blurry, and I groan out loud, looking up as I try to blink back the tears.

This is not the time nor the place for a meltdown.

There might not be any paparazzi here, but influencers are just as rapacious.

If not worse.

I feel Oliver approach from the back as if my body still recognizes his energy. That feeling is just as confusing as having the familiar notes of his cologne waft around me when he places his coat around my shoulders.

“Who was that kid, anyway?” Oliver says, as if he still has rightful access to my personal life.

“He’s not a kid,” I say numbly, then swivel around, remembering who I’m talking to. “And it’s none of your fucking business!” I spit. “Why are you even here in the first place?”

He slides his hands in his trouser pockets, the street light outlining the profile of his face. Even outside in the cold winter night, this asshole can easily find his light. He’s the picture of glossy perfection. And I can’t believe I once fell for it.

“I told you. I needed to see you,” he drawls.

I stare at him in disbelief as his words pluck at my bruised heart. I repress the feeling and choose anger instead, a Hail Mary effort to protect myself against him. I rip his coat off my shoulders and throw it back to him.

“Too little, too late.”

I try to storm back inside, but Oliver catches my wrist with his hand. I look down at where we connect, then slowly back up to his face. His brown eyes are full of an unsung plea, and a battle of contradicting emotions wages inside of me.

“Let me explain myself,” he says quietly. “Please.”

I bring Oliver to an empty diner that Jamie and I frequented often when we were still in school. It’s run by a couple who are well into their seventies. Most importantly, I knew they’d have no clue who or how famous Oliver was.

That includes the handful of senior regulars frequenting this spot on a Friday night. It’s the closest thing to anonymity I could think of without bringing Oliver back to my hotel.

And that was not going to happen.

Oliver pretends to peruse the sticky menu as if he’ll find something that works with his keto diet. Even here, his demeanor is poised and practiced, always at the ready for an unexpected photo-op. Ruth, who’s been working here for as long as I can remember, waddles her way to our table.

“Ready, doll?” she says, directing her question to me.

I smile and hand her my menu. “Can I please have the key lime pie and a coffee?”

She smiles and nods, jotting down my order.

“And you?” she asks, turning her attention to Oliver.

“What kind of herbal tea do you have?

Oliver’s dazzling smile falls flat with Ruth.

“Regular,” she replies dryly.

His eyes dart to me. “What does that —”

“He’ll have herbal tea with lemon,” I say as I rip the menu out of his hands and hand it over. “Thank you, Ruth.”

She lets out a small grunt in response and walks away.

I can feel Oliver’s eyes on me, and I reluctantly slide my gaze back to meet his. He’s sporting an infuriatingly amused grin. I take a moment to imagine how good it’d feel to punch him in the face.

“What?” I snap.

He chuckles, and his levity has me clenching my jaw and crossing my arms as I lean into the booth.

“Come here often?”

I stare at him like he’s the stupidest idiot on earth. Because he just might be.

“I grew up here, remember? Anyway —” I immediately want to change the subject. “Shouldn’t you be in rehab? Or was that also a lie?”

His nonchalant facade wavers, and he sighs .

“I checked out this week, I was there almost three months.” I catch the unspoken plea in his eyes as he leans his forearms on the table and clasps his hands together. “Look, Connie, I’m sorry … I really, really am.”

At the sound of his flimsy apology, I look away, laughing coldly as I tighten my arms across my chest.

“For what exactly? The cheating? You being a shitty boyfriend? The public humiliation?”

Oliver is about to reply when Ruth comes back with our order. He pushes himself off the table, and we both give her a thin-lipped smile, mumbling our thank yous, the tense silence particularly stifling. As soon as she leaves, he leans back toward me.

“For everything,” he whispers harshly. “All of it.”

He tries to reach for my hand, now resting close to my coffee cup, but I quickly take it away. Exhaling slowly, he leans back into the booth and stares at me.

“I know there’s no excuse for what I did, but you have to believe me, Connie, I was fucked up . I didn’t know what I was doing half of the time. I would never do anything to hurt you intentionally, you have to believe me.”

I scoff and pull out a sugar packet from the basket just for something to do with my hands. I give the packet a few hard snaps as I pin Oliver with my stare.

“Charming.” I rip the sugar packet open and dump it into my coffee. “A real fucking fairytale.”

I catch his eyes dipping to my coffee, then back up.

“Refined sugar?” he comments as if he can’t even help himself.

“Oh my god.” The words roll slowly and deliberately off my tongue as I look up to the ceiling, then I slam him with a death glare. “That’s rich coming from an addict.”

He squirms in his seat as he sucks on his teeth. I’ve clearly touched a nerve.

“Ex-addict,” he mumbles under his breath.

The conversation dies out as we both reach for our hot beverages. I add whole milk to my coffee, and he squeezes lemon into his tea. The clink of the spoons hitting the sides of our cups fills the tense silence until, finally, Oliver speaks again.

“I love you, Connie.”

The words slice at my heart like a freshly sharpened scalpel. It feels like I’m bleeding out as I stare back at him, trying to keep my face as expressionless as possible.

When I speak, my voice is soft but shaky as I fight the familiar sting of unshed tears. “You have a cruel way of showing it.”

Oliver’s brown eyes turn mournful, and it’s the first time I see real hurt splashed across his face since we started speaking.

“Let me make it up to you,” he croaks.

My mind flashes to Huxley. And a pang of guilt hits me right in the chest.

I need to talk to him.

I worry at my bottom lip and look down at my uneaten key lime pie.

“I’ve moved on, Oliver.”

It’s just past midnight when I finally get back to my hotel.

Oliver not-so-subtly tried to find out where I was staying.

But I was not about to divulge such crucial information.

The last thing I need is for him to transfer to my hotel, especially after telling me he was staying in Marsford Bay for at least a week.

I peel off my dress with a tired sigh as I replay the night in my head. It feels like that handful of hours lasted forever. A bone-deep exhaustion throbs throughout my limbs like I’ve just completed a marathon.

I feel wrung out; the emotions I’ve experienced tonight resting heavily on my skin like chainmail twice my weight.

The night was going so well … until it didn’t.

It felt so natural to have Huxley by my side.

He looked so good on my arm, and my stomach would flutter anytime my gaze landed on the black hearts in his hair as if we shared a private moment, even in a crowd full of people.

I slump to the bathroom and start my night-time skincare routine, dying to just fall into bed. After taking off my makeup, I change into a silk set and finally crawl under the sheets, phone in hand.

I wasn’t necessarily expecting some sign of life from Huxley after our fight—I know him well enough by now to expect the cold shoulder—but my heart still sinks when I see no messages from him.

Although it’s getting late, I dial his number, hoping he’ll pick up, but I’m not surprised when my call goes to voicemail. Letting out a loud sigh that feels like it’s coming straight from my soul, I hang up. Chewing on my nail, I pull up our text conversation and start to type a message.

I’m sorry about tonight.

I watch the blue cursor flash and flash and flash as I dwell on what to say next or if that sentence is even worth sending.

I tsk under my breath and delete the whole thing.

I’m too emotionally tired to come up with anything of substance.

We can both sleep it off and talk tomorrow.

My stomach twists when I remember that tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.

God … What horrible timing.

I slam my phone face down on the bedside table and turn on the TV to some late-night rerun of Futurama , hoping it can quiet my mind enough for me to sleep.

“Some weed gummies would be great right about now,” I grumble out loud as I sink deeper into the pillows.

I fall asleep not long after, the lights still on and the TV blaring.