Dirty Letters(76)

But now it was starting to feel like I’d jumped the gun with my planning. I still had Griffin’s travel schedule and confirmed that the letter I’d overnighted to his hotel had been personally delivered to him three days ago. When he didn’t call or text right away, I refused to believe that he was done with me. So I’d convinced myself that the reason it was taking so long to hear from him was because he wanted to write back to me in a letter. Talk about clinging to false hopes. Though now realization had begun to set in that the true reason it was taking so long might actually be because he wasn’t planning on responding at all.

And I couldn’t blame him. All my mental health issues were enough trouble, but then I’d gone and broken things off. How many times could a man be expected to offer his heart just to have the woman he loved stomp on it? At some point, he’d smarten up and move on, and, unfortunately, I might’ve driven him to that point the last time I’d pushed him away.

A feeling of melancholy settled in that evening. I didn’t have the energy to write or pretty much do anything productive at all, so I ordered Chinese takeout and plopped myself on the couch with a set of chopsticks and a cardboard container in my hands. Hortencia was lying on her bed across the room and looked over at my unshowered ass and seemed to shake her head and sigh.

“Yeah. I know. But what can I tell you? There are days you don’t smell so pretty yourself.”

Great. Now I was talking to a dead girl and arguing with a pig.

Flicking on the television, I mindlessly pushed the “Channel” button, looking for something to watch. Where were all the tearjerker movies when you needed them? Dear John, A Dog’s Purpose, maybe Me Before You. Nothing seemed to be on but the news and reality TV. Giving up, I tossed the remote on the couch next to me and dug into my container to wallow in food.

My mouth was stuffed so full that I nearly choked hearing the name Cole Archer on the television. I looked up and my stomach did a flip seeing Griffin’s handsome face on the screen.

“It’s good to see you,” the reporter said.

“Good to see you, too, Maryanne.”

Griffin and some pretty dark-haired reporter with big eyes were standing in front of a stadium. A bunch of teenage girls and women were in the background shouting his name. Maryanne glanced back at them. “Looks like your fans are excited for the last show of your tour tonight.”

He flashed a dimpled grin at the crowd and waved. “I’m just as excited as they are for tonight.”

God, so much emotion came over me seeing his smile—excitement, sadness, longing.

“So Cole . . . you unveiled a new song to the world a few nights ago. Can you tell us about it? Who is this mystery woman, and how long have you two been together?”

I held my breath and stared at the TV. My heart started to hammer inside my chest but then stopped when the smile on Griff’s face fell. “There is no woman, really. She was just a figment of my imagination.”

“So you’re not in a relationship with someone named Luca, then?”

Griff looked away. He shook his head. “Sometimes when you want to believe someone exists badly enough, you make up an entire fantasy about a relationship in your head. That’s all it was.”

It felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach. Oh God, Griffin. What we have is real. I swear.

Maryanne looked at the camera and smiled. “You heard it here first, ladies. There is no Luca. Which means we still have one very eligible bachelor, Seattle.”

The woman kissed Griff on the cheek, and he walked toward the entrance to the stadium without looking back.

I stared at the television as the enormity of what had just transpired kicked in. Tears started to stream down my face. I’d really lost him.



Accepting that Griffin and I were over was a lot like losing Izzy. I went through the different stages of loss. I’d wake up each morning thinking it was a bad dream—denial. Then it would hit me that I’d really lost him, and the pain would come back with a vengeance. I knew I’d wavered back and forth about our relationship, but by midafternoon the fact that he hadn’t answered my letter made me angry. I’d believed him when he said he loved me—that he’d give me time and would be there waiting if things changed. I guess I hadn’t realized that time . . . was limited to two weeks. By evening, I was scooping mint–chocolate chip ice cream directly from the half-gallon container to eat away my sadness—depression. Then when I couldn’t fall asleep, I’d lie in bed staring up at the ceiling for hours cooking up a crazy scheme to get him to change his mind—bargaining. The last stage—acceptance—had taken me eight years to arrive at for Izzy, and I felt like this one could take longer.

Doc came over for our morning therapy session, and my tired ass was dragging. I had to force myself to get dressed for our walk in the woods but figured some fresh air would do me good. “Have you heard from Griff?” I asked, unable to hide the hopefulness in my voice.

He frowned and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Luca, I haven’t.”

“But you’d tell me if you had, right?”

“Yes, I’d tell you.”

It wasn’t like I was sitting around waiting for Griff to call or return my letter anymore—eight days had now passed since he’d received my heart on a platter, and three since he’d told the world there was no Luca. Yet I still held out some sort of stupid hope that he at least wanted to check on me, that he at least cared.