Page 41 of Play the Part (Marsford Bay #2)

CONNIE

“ Y eah, the movers just left,” I tell Jamie on the phone as I stroll through my new condo.

The moving company unpacked the bulk of it—furniture, dinnerware, etc.—but left less straightforward boxes for me to handle. Like my random little trinkets and my extensive nineties romcom DVD collection that I refuse to let go of.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t bother flying to LA to at least say farewell to your old place,” Jamie replies.

I can tell she’s at work by the bustle in the background.

Scoffing with amusement, I weave through boxes on the floor and head to the kitchen.

“Why? It’s just a house.”

“Just a house,” Jamie repeats in subtle horror. “And what about LA? You’re going to tell me that it’s jus t a city? And not the place you called your home for almost a decade?”

I chuckle, tucking my phone between my shoulder and chin so I can open a cupboard and reach for a wine glass. The thought crosses my mind that all the dishes need a good wash, but it doesn’t deter me from grabbing the bottle of Chablis in the fridge.

“It’s really not that deep, Jamie,” I tease. “You’re just too sentimental for your own good.”

She laughs warmly. “I truly cannot relate.” I hear her fiancé call out to her in the background before she adds quickly, “Ozzy needs me, but I’ll come over tonight and help you unpack, okay? Or wait — is that too sentimental for you?”

I snicker. “Bitch.” I pour some wine into my glass. “Sounds great. I’ll be here all day, so just come over when you’re done.”

James chirps her goodbyes, and we hang up.

The silence returns as I stand next to the kitchen island, the marble cool under my palms. I take a sip of wine, the taste tart and crisp, and inhale—slow and deep—as I casually survey my new place.

It’s understandably messy, with boxes and plastic bins everywhere, but at least my furniture is where it should be.

It gives the place a sense of familiarity, as if I’m only a few steps away from calling this place my home.

I have a sudden urge to disregard unpacking for now and just sit in front of the living room windows overlooking the harbor.

My couch doesn’t face the window, unlike how it was staged when I first came to visit. It faces the TV on the right-hand side of the living room. I drag a reading chair close to the windows for now, idly wondering if maybe I should just buy another couch for when this specific urge hits.

I add it to my mental to-do list and settle into the chair. Propping a foot up on the cushion so that my knee is close to my chest, I wrap my arm around my leg and take another sip of wine with my free hand.

Reality settles around me the longer I sit here in silence. It’s like watching silt drift down onto the ocean floor. One instant, everything feels blurred, then, after a few patient blinks, a whole new world is revealed.

I might have fibbed to Jamie.

Of course, I’m sentimental. Just not for the same things she claims I should be for.

Sentimental for the person I was, even just a few months ago. Sentimental for the future she used to dream about. She feels like a ghost now. And her future looks nothing like my present.

And maybe, subconsciously, I’ve been grieving that version of myself while still continuing to move forward. Always forward.

Don’t look back. Never look back.

Jamie could probably drone on about how beneficial it is to look to the past to better understand the future.

Pass.

God, maybe I do need therapy.

She’d probably drone on about that, too.

Then, there are the men in my life. They complicate everything . Although right now, it’s hard to know if there’s anyone left to begin with.

One man represents my past.

And the other … well.

I once hoped he represented my future, but I’m not so sure about that anymore.

After Huxley left yesterday—and after I came down from the high of what we had just done—I was left more angry than confused.

I suddenly felt exhausted.

The game we had played for months suddenly felt vapid and unappealing. Childish and immature. Once again, I chide my impulsivity. Nine times out of ten it ends up biting me in the ass. And maybe I have to face the obvious: Huxley isn’t ready for a relationship.

Maybe neither of us is.

I stare out the window, taking a slow sip of wine as the realization slowly dawns over me.

Has Huxley ever been in a committed relationship before?

Shit .

Why does it feel much too serious all of a sudden? For once, I’m grateful for Huxley’s passive-aggressive methods of confrontation.

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

At least it gives me space to think.

Slow down and reflect on my past choices. I shake my head and laugh under my breath. Jamie would be so proud. She’s right; running away from my problems just isn’t sustainable anymore, especially at my age.

Sighing, I place my elbow on the cushioned armrest and plant my chin onto my palm, lost in thought. It really makes me wonder if my avoidant behavior stems from something deeper.

I snort out loud.

I’m not going down that path today.

One thing at a time, Connie.

I finish the last of my wine and set the glass on the floor next to the chair. I don’t even realize what I’m doing until I’m already thumbing through the pictures on my phone.

I have to scroll through all the selfies I took of me and Huxley at the Hendrick’s party to get to it …

as well as the ones Huxley took of me when I was giving him head earlier that day.

Heat curls low in my stomach. I’m embarrassed to admit how often I’ve stared at those pictures.

I didn’t even realize he had taken them, I found them the next day when he had already started to ignore me.

Given the circumstances, I hated how it made me feel.

I even considered sending one to Huxley just to fuck with him.

Alas. I’m trying to act like an adult, and well … I wouldn’t risk that picture floating around unprotected. I’m just famous enough for it to turn into a scandal.

Finally, I find what I’m looking for.

It’s the pictures I took of Huxley when we first visited this place together. The golden hour illuminated his face just right. The genuine curiosity in his eyes as he scanned the kitchen. I felt inspired to capture the moment.

I must be a masochist to want to look at these pictures. But the ache is just right. The memories attached to them speak of an easier time between us, even if that was less than a month ago. Nostalgia slowly turns into resentment, then into anger.

Why did he have to go and ruin it?

I sigh and shut my phone off, chucking it beside me.

Maybe the solution to all my problems is simple.

Stay as far away from Huxley as possible.

And stay single.