Page 137 of The Publicity Stunt

I’ve spent so much time making someone out to be the villain of my story. Of our story. And I wish life was that simple, that black and white, so I could pinpoint a single person as the reason behind my reckless actions. But life is anything but simple. People aren’t black and white. People aren’t perfect. You can blame someone, but only for a while. Then you find someone else, then someone else, and so on.

It’s easier to move past something when there’s someone to blame. But sometimes, there’s no one to blame. Not even yourself.

We sit next to each other for another minute or two, then she gets up. “Well, I should probably leave before I miss my train. And in case Parker decides to show up here. Seems a little too soon for a reunion.”

“Shara?”

She looks at me.

I try to say something, form some sort of a coherent response. But it’s as if my brain has fallen asleep. I want to apologize. I want to give her a hug. I want to say something. But nothing comes out.

Somehow, reading my silence perfectly, Shara gives me a weak smile and nods.I know. “Don’t let him go again. You won’t be doing yourself any favors.”

“It might be too late already,” I admit to her for some godforsaken reason.

She sets the ring box down on the empty space next to me and smiles. “Then wait another decade. He’ll find his way back to you. He always will.”

She gives me a small half-wave and walks toward the gates and onto the street. And she doesn’t look back. Not once. She’s moved on and there’s nothing but awe and respect for her in my heart.

I stare at the box for a few seconds before slowly reaching for it. Getting up, I walk toward his trailer, step inside, and place the ring box in the bottom drawer of his dresser.

* * *

“Venti Espresso Frappe for April! No whip!”

I saunter over to the counter and grab my to-go cup.

Stepping out of the Starbucks and onto 59thStreet, I look down at my drink and I see it does have whipped cream. It’s a chilly Thursday evening, the fall leaves have finally begun to change color, which calls for general buzzing happiness all around—only I can’t seem to chemically form that emotion anymore.

I don’t give a shit about the weather. I don’t give a shit if it’s summer or winter or fall. And I definitely don’t give a shit if my coffee has whipped cream in it or not. Because even if it didn’t, it wouldn’t change the fact that Parker’s out of my life for good this time. Nothing will.

Waiting underneath his apartment for two whole hours achieved nothing either. I even tried to scale his balcony in hopes of luring out Dog. What if he left him there? What if he’s starving? I’m not a cat person, but no animal should starve to death because of shared trauma between two friends.

I have no idea where Parker is or if he’s coming back. There’s a tangled mess of emotions whirling around my head, eating at me. I can’t seem to make sense of anything anymore.

A cold breeze picks up. I pull the hem of my pink T-shirt down and take half a sip of my coffee.

I keep telling myself I’ll get over it. All I need is time. But he’s everywhere, in everything I do. He’s all I can think of. The sound of his laugh, his voice, the way he sometimes smiled at me for no particular reason. I wipe the tear off my cheek and start heading to my apartment three blocks away. It didn’t hurt this bad the first time. Probably because that time, I was the one who did the leaving. While I ran from my problems, he faced it all. Faced the consequences of it all. He did it all by himself. And he did it for me.

I keep walking, focusing on nothing but the sound of my flats against the concrete sidewalk. If I stop, I’m going to start crying again, and no one on the streets of Manhattan needs to witness that.

I sniffle and take another unenthusiastic sip, reaching my street.

All my life, the one thing I’ve truly wanted is a perfect love. A love worthy of movie screens. Sparks and butterflies and magic. A love worth fighting entire wars for. But what I have—had—with Parker was anything but that. It was not magical. It definitely was not perfect. I didn’t fall in love with him because of the butterflies; I fell in love with him because he made it feel easy. He made me feel like I was home. He gave me a low, pulsating, constant sense of happiness.

He was my hopeful love.

He made me feel okay about believing in magic. He made me feel okay about believing in myself. Like even if I didn’t find my happy ending, even if I didn’t find my perfect love, I’d be fine.

I turn left toward my building and pick up the pace. Faster, one foot in front of the other. Again and again, till I reach my building.

Then my feet stop working entirely.

My breathing gets a little choppy and even though I was convinced I don’t know how to anymore, I feel a smile tug at my lips. At least, something like it. My heart rises to my throat, hot and pulsing, and it’s too big for me to swallow. Because here he is. After two whole weeks of nothingness, here he is, standing right in front of my apartment building, wearing a crisp white shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, formal black pants, and a pair of brown dress shoes. His hair still as messy as the day I first met him.

Hayden Parker.

ChapterThirty-Two