Chasing Him (Dark Love 4)

Good things come to those who wait.

I’ve waited, and you, Adriana, were worth the wait.

Yours, Julian.

I officially have the hangover from hell.

The glare of the sun filtering through the window does nothing to ease my pain. Grabbing the pillow beside me, I throw it at the window, hoping for a miracle in which the drapes will shut by themselves. My head is throbbing, the foul taste of beer in my mouth urging me to run to the bathroom as fast as I can.

After emptying the contents of my stomach for what feels like an eternity, I hop into the shower to wash away the regret over what I said to Julian. It was uncalled for. I was a downright bitch all because I thought I am not good enough. If my husband didn’t think I was worth staying alive for, then why would anyone else want me?

Stop with this self-pity crap.

An hour later, I’m standing in the hallway staring at his door, planning out my apology—word for word what I am going to say. Raising my hand against the door, I knock gently. Nothing. My mind immediately thinks the worst, and my knocks become frantic until the door opens.

Julian rubs his eyes. His beautiful disheveled hair a result of me waking him up. My tongue is unable to connect to my brain as I find myself gawking at his chest. Standing in only his boxers, how can I not look. I mean hot damn, he’s cut to perfection.

My eyes trace the lines of his abs.

One… two… three… four… five… six, I count to myself.

“Adriana, it’s early,” he mumbles, sleepily.

Lost in my abs daze, I quickly speak, “I… uh… I came to say sorry, Julian.”

He motions for me to come inside the dark room. Walking over to the windows, he opens the drapes, then grabs a T-shirt hanging off the chair. I take a seat on the edge of the bed as he sits on the small tub chair by the window.

“What happened last night?” His voice is somber.

“I drank too much.”

“Yes, you did. But what got you so upset that you had to run away from me?”

I nervously play with the ring on my middle finger, my eyes glancing to where my wedding ring used to sit. There was a time when anger consumed me overshadowing my grief and yearning to bring my husband back. The band reminds me of a life promised, and so, in the midst of my raging emotions, I removed the ring and stored it inside a small trinket box Elijah gave me in high school. I half-expected to feel a lo

ss when I removed it, but it never came. What came was more pain, more anger, and resentment toward a man who isn’t here to even defend himself.

“Our wedding song, it played. Your publicist… I don’t know, there was just too much going on.”

“My publicist?”

“She was all over you.”

He remains silent, something he does often because he actually thinks about his words unlike myself.

“It’s understandable that a song would upset you. Studies show that—”

I interrupt him in frustration. “Screw fucking studies. It hurt, okay! I hate that one minute there’s this ray of hope, and then, bam.” I raise my hands, the anger swelling inside of me. “Some stupid thing will trigger all the pain. I’m so over feeling this way. Sometimes I just want to forget he ever existed.”

Silence.

“And stop being quiet. Just say it… say whatever it is you want to say.”

“It’s before eight in the morning. I’m tired and mentally drained. You’re hungover and clearly tired as well. Nothing I say or do right now will please you, so if you don’t mind, I really just want to sleep a bit more.”

He takes his shirt back off and closes the drapes. Walking over to the bed, he pulls the covers off and climbs in, resting his head on the pillow, rubbing his face with his hands.

Great, what am I supposed to do now? The room is silent and dark, the jetlag settling in, not to mention I stayed up reading his book. I just couldn’t put it down.