Burn My Hart (The Notorious Harts 2)

I stare at it and shake my head. It doesn’t make any sense. Nothing makes sense.

Can we have dinner when I’m back? Day after next.

She doesn’t reply for several hours, by which point I’m ready to get straight on a jet and fly myself directly to her apartment building. When she does finally get back to me, it’s brief.

That’s not a good idea. It’s been fun, but I think it’s best if we leave it at that. Take care of yourself, Theo.

Hell, to the no. No way is she ending it like this. After everything we’ve shared? My mouth forms a grim line on my face. We agreed to end it, she’s right, but it was never supposed to be without a proper goodbye. I deserve at least that, don’t I?

* * *

Running away was a really cowardly thing to do. I knew it as soon as the plane took off and I expelled a huge sigh of relief. I knew it and yet I didn’t change my course, or my mind. It was a matter of survival or something.

And now, three days later, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the pounding at the door without moving. Because I’m being cowardly still.

I know it’s Theo. Who else would it be?

Sure enough, my phone buzzes a moment later and when I look at the screen his face buzzes up, larger than life. It’s like being the victim of a drive-by shooting. I hadn’t expected to see him, and not this photo, the one I took so many months ago when things were simple and I was the happiest I’ve ever been. Salt fills my mouth. I slam the phone down and stare resolutely at my ceiling.

A moment later, a text pings in.

We have to talk.

There’s a tiny burst of hope that flares inside me. What if he doesn’t want to lose me, to lose what we are?

But I know Theo too well to let that hope last long. He’s stubborn and determined and he’s not going to let anyone or anything change his mind. The whole time we were sleeping together he was adamant we would only ever be about sex. And on that last night in Australia I basically told him I loved him. I begged him to love me, just like I have begged my dad, over and over, and his response was just the same. Rejection. Resounding, soul-destroying rejection.

He’s right, though. Running away after everything we’ve shared isn’t right; he deserves a little more of an explanation, a proper goodbye. But not like this. It’s going to be hard enough to face him without feeling like I’ve been hit by a bus. I sit up in bed and stare at my reflection. My eyes are red-rimmed, my skin pale, my hair a complete disaster. Reaching for my phone, I begin to type.

Sure. I can meet for a quick drink tonight. Six p.m.?

As soon as I send it, I feel better. Empowered.

Where are you?

I ignore his text, my heart pounding. A moment later, another message.

Fine. Four Seasons?

I don’t know why he’s chosen there as a venue. It reminds me of the night we agreed to end this, the night things shifted between us, and the feelings are like torture.

Asha?

Okay. I’ll see you then.

I don’t sign off with an X and I switch my phone to flight mode afterwards. It’s rare for me to be out of contact but I just need some time.

How much time? God knows.

I dress with care that evening, choosing a pair of black leather pants and a beige sweater shirt that falls off one shoulder. It’s a confidence thing, but it doesn’t really help.

I have to pause outside the bar to get my breath, and then I stand in the doorframe, a little to the side so I can see in without being seen. I recognise his hair from across the room and a visceral ache spreads through me. I’m so tempted to turn around and walk away. It hurts like hell to see him, to feel like everything’s shifted between us.

But I’ve already ghosted him once, I don’t intend to do it again. This is going to be the hardest thing I’ve done in my whole darn life.

I grind my teeth and step into the bar, moving through it with my head dipped, sliding into the seat opposite before he sees me and before he can stand up.

I regard him, carefully keeping my expression blanked of anything, my eyes holding his for just long enough to be polite.