That One Moment (Lost in London #2)(78)

His face crushes me. His eyes are merely hollow shells of the man who’s been opening up to me the last few weeks. He moves to turn away from me, but before he lets go of my arms, an explosion erupts from the very depths of my soul.

“You don’t get to keep forever to yourself!” I scream loudly into his face and shove his chest with all my might. He blinks hard as if the outburst broke some protective shell around him. My emotional shove proves more effective than my physical. Acidic tears slide over my lips and into my mouth, the salty liquid doing nothing to quench the burning in my chest. My spit is thick in my throat as I touch my hands to his face. He flinches like the tips of my fingers are made of razor blades. My voice trembles as I utter, “Hayden, I love you.”

His expression turns grim and he deftly yanks free from my grasp. “Vi, I need to be on my own.” His voice is calm and professional, like he’s addressing a business transaction as he backs away from me. “This isn’t good for my recovery.”

I swallow back the thickness bubbling up as every insecurity from my entire life starts pulling at me like quicksand. Like the underworld is reaching up from beneath the ground and dragging me down into the depths of hell. “Hayden, if it’s just that you’re scared or you’re unsure, I get it. But if it’s me, have the courage to tell me. If you don’t love me then that is something I can’t help you through.” I fist my hands against my chest in agony over the doom I feel coming. “At this point, either you love me or you don’t. There is no way you don’t know by now.”

Sobs crack from my throat as I look at Hayden and all he offers me is a pitying expression. All the days we spent revealing the deepest parts of our lives, gone. Vanished. The pain is horrifying.

I look into his eyes one last time and everything I love about him is magnified. His heart, his pain, his passion, his temper. I’m looking at everything I want.

And he’s looking at me like a charity case.

Without waiting for his verbal confirmation, I walk to the edge of the sidewalk and wave down a passing cab. I slide onto the smooth leather and crumble inside the quietness.

I don’t look back. I can’t look back.

My broken man…

…just broke me.





RELAPSE


My knuckles turn white as I grip a brown bottle of beer nestled inside the cooler door amongst a sea of other brown bottles. I blink furiously against the flickering neon lights casting a putrid green glow on the back of my hand. On the back of my scarred, mangled, f*cked up hand. I didn’t even make the conscious decision to step inside this rundown corner shop that has the faint smell of ammonia and urine. I barely even noticed the foreign man behind the counter shouting into his cell phone in another language.

But now, here I am, staring at row after row of assorted booze inside a convenience store cooler section.

Seeing the bottle in my hand, my eyes narrow. I squeeze the base of it. Hard. Harder. It doesn’t break. I’m not strong enough. I’m f*cking weak. I have to choose right now between climbing up an enormous mountain or falling down a slippery hill. Rage explodes inside of me over that realisation. I grab the bottle and yank it from the cooler. The door slams shut as I swing my arm back as far as I can and launch the offensive bottle onto the ground by my feet. The scent of beer invades my nose as the amber liquid splashes up on my pants. My boots crunch over the shiny glass as I move back into the fridge to grab two more bottles staring me down at eye level. I hold them in place and squeeze them as hard as I can, letting out a garbled grunt when I still can’t break the f*cking glass.

The man at the counter begins shouting in a foreign language. I release the bottles in frustration and, without pause, turn and storm down the aisle, chucking a twenty-pound note on the counter as I stride out the door. My walk turns faster and faster, eventually shifting into a full on run. I sprint through the busy and narrow streets with cabbies honking at me at nearly every intersection. I run and run until my lungs are about to explode. In the end, I find myself back at Shoreditch in front of C. Designs. My stomach roils as I hunch over, propping my hands on my knees for support. Silently screaming in agony, my chest rises and falls in terrifyingly fast measures.

Theo’s glasses-covered eyes catch sight of me through the window while he works a skill saw on a slab of raw wood. His expression drops as he sets down the saw and comes running out to me.

“Hayden, what happened?” His footsteps come to a thundering halt beside me and he squats to look up at my face. I continue panting, unable to respond, and his eyes frown down at my wet trousers. He sniffs. “Have you been f*cking drinking?”

I scowl and shake my head aggressively, standing up and clutching my side as I continue to heave huge gulps of air into my lungs.

“You’re lying. You reek of alcohol,” he accuses, his brown eyes icy slits as he rises up to his feet. “What the f*ck, Hayden? How could you?”

“I didn’t!” I snap, shoving Theo in the chest angrily just as Leslie appears over his shoulder.

She’s pushing Marisa in a pram. Her green eyes widen with fear as Theo grabs me by my shirt and pulls me to his face. “Goddammit, Hayden! You’re going to throw it all away again. A f*cking year’s worth of work for what?”

I go limp in his arms and he stares back at me in confusion as I gesture over his shoulder with my chin. His head turns and lands on Leslie. Instantly, his grip releases my shirt.