Erasing Faith(70)

“Laugh all you want,” Lux grumbled unhappily. “Someday when the tables have turned and you’re the one who’s married and a thousand months pregnant, I will have no sympathy. We’ll see who’s laughing, then.”

“I see you’re in a good mood, this morning,” I said, ignoring the familiar pang of sadness that her words inspired and forcing a cheery tone. “This very early morning, I might add.”

It wasn’t quite seven.

“Bash made me waffles at four a.m.,” she said a little wistfully, an involuntary smile on her face as she spoke of her husband, Sebastian. “And then I couldn’t fall back asleep so I figured I’d come harass you instead.”

“Preggo my Eggo,” I teased, settling in next to her on the couch.

She stuck out her tongue at me.

It was actually pretty funny to see her in such foul spirits. Normally, Lux was a sunny blonde with an even sunnier personality — one that had shone all the brighter in the past year, since she’d married the love of her life and was now, and I quote, a thousand months pregnant with his baby. They were the perfect couple — both fair haired and fun, with big hearts and warm dispositions. They were also so obviously in love it almost hurt to look at them directly.

“I brought breakfast,” Lux said, nodding toward the coffee cup and white paper bag on my side table, both of which were emitting delicious smells I was convinced only the bakeries of Manhattan were capable of producing.

“Thanks,” I said, reaching out for the coffee. I felt the weight of Lux’s eyes on my face as I lifted the cup to my mouth and turned to look at her. She was watching the progress of my sip with sheer longing on her face — her eyes bright, her lips parted. When I swallowed the first scalding gulp, I thought she might start to cry.

“You okay over there?” I asked quizzically, once my tastebuds had recovered.

“Coffee,” she said weakly, her eyes still trained on my cup. “I miss coffee. So much.”

“Well, it won’t be too long, now. That bun’s just about ready to come out of the oven,” I joked, eyeing her stomach.

“Agh! Don’t say that. I’m not remotely prepared.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re going to be a great mom, and you know it. And Sebastian is practically tailor-made for fatherhood.” I smiled at her. “Baby Jamie is one lucky little fetus.”

“Ew, please don’t say fetus.”

“Sorry. How about zygote?” I teased. “Or embryo? Spawn? Seedling?”

“I will take those croissants and leave,” she warned. “Don’t test me. Yesterday, I ate an entire baguette in one sitting.”

I laughed.

For the next hour, I listened happily to her describe her disastrous attempts to paint the nursery a unisex color. Apparently, saffron orange looked way better in curry than it did on the walls. Small talk with Lux should’ve been boring, but it wasn’t. For a long time, even after I’d left everything behind and moved across the country, I’d thought I would never have this again.

Friendship.

When Lux and I met two years ago, I’d been alone. I hadn’t had a friend since Margot, and I’d barely known how to get myself to work in the morning, let alone strike up conversation with the stranger in the cubicle next to mine. How could I be a friend to someone when I barely knew myself?

Because I couldn’t be Faith Morrissey anymore. I refused to be that stupid girl who’d been lied to. Deceived and duped by a man with a charming, crooked smile and a few pretty words. That girl…

She was gullible. Naive. Foolish to believe, even for a minute, that things were real with him.

Men like Wes Adams simply didn’t fall for women who were scared of their own shadow. Whirlwind romances and fairytale happily-ever-afters were nothing more than Hollywood fabrications. And sad, silly girls who could no longer recognize themselves in the mirror weren’t worth anyone’s time.

I’d needed a clean slate. A fresh start. A new name and a new city, where no one would know me or my story.

And, more importantly, where no one could ever find me.

Where he could never find me.

New York had been perfect, for that. With Conor’s help, I’d gotten my new life. I’d just never anticipated that this existence would allow for things like friends or laughter. Nor had I realized that, even with the constant, throbbing pain of a broken, betrayed heart in my chest, I would be able to find happiness again.

My capacity for romantic love was gone — that was an unchangeable fact.

But my love for the rest of it — for best friends and buttery croissants, for fashion and fine bottles of wine — was very much intact.

Being heartbroken doesn’t mean you stop feeling. Just the opposite — it means you feel it all more. With your heart in fragments, every sensation is sharper, every emotion more acute. Your feelings are enhanced, like a blind man with an impeccable sense of smell, or a deaf woman whose eyes can perceive things a normal person would never recognize.

The brokenhearted are the best empaths of all.

I wasn’t numb or desensitized to the world. I experienced everything with the keen sharpness of a blade — the pain, the betrayal, the loss, the lies. The light, the love, the hope, the fear.

My heart wasn’t dead — but Faith Morrissey was.