him in the back seat of the car.
He smiles tightly. “Moral support.”
I get in and buckle up. Turn to my friend and admire her flawless makeup and even more flawless life. “You two are together, aren’t you?”
“No,” says Gina at the same time Gray says, “Yes.”
“Which is it?”
“Yes,” says Gina at the same time Gray says, “No.”
At the park, among the hundreds of families and couples lounging on blankets laid out all over the field, I hit rock bottom. I’ve never felt so alone in my life. Then it gets worse. By some strange coincidence, I spot my parents in the crowd. My father leans down and kisses my mother.
I want to scream. I want to cry and throw a tantrum. I had love. I had the love of the best man I have ever known or will ever know and I screwed it up. Because that’s what I do. I get carried away and screw things up.
For the next three hours, I suffer through some of the most spectacular fireworks I’ve ever seen. There’s something intrinsically romantic about fireworks, which of course reminds me of Jake.
Then I have to suffer through Gray holding Gina’s hand and kissing every single one of her fingertips. They gave up trying to hide it as soon as we got out of the car. It reminds me of Jake. Because everything reminds me of Jake.
By 9 p.m. all I want to do is crawl under Jake’s sheets and breath in his scent. I’ve been doing that on the regular lately, taking hits every couple of hours just to get a piece of him.
Nobody warns you about the withdrawal symptoms. Nobody tells you that detox is more excruciatingly painful than never having known how wonderful real love is.
When Gina drops me off, the lights in the Hemingway are on. My feet can’t carry me fast enough. I race to the threshold of the open door and find him inside. Jake is back––and he’s throwing stuff in his luggage.
“Jake…” My voice is so weak and shaky I barely recognize it as my own.
He pauses the packing and looks at me. His face is blank, remote. I hardly recognize him. At least when he was Scrooge there was some emotion there. This version of Jake, I don’t know. He’s retreated so far back, I’m petrified I may never reach him again.
“I didn’t do it.”
“He knew every detail.” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. It’s done. I’m leaving. I’m checking out. I’m paid up until August so we’re good, yeah?”
He throws the rest of his work-out clothes in the bag. All black. Sneakers. Sweatpants. Track pants. Underwear. He’s wearing black now. For a man who’s so good with color, he doesn’t care for it in his life.
I take a step closer and he zips up the bag. “Don’t come any closer.”
He sounds so cold, so remote, I stop in my tracks. My heart is beating as fast as a rabbit caught in a trap. I swallow down the fear and sense of loss, but it does nothing to stop the tears running down my face. And once they start, they continue unchecked.
“Please hear me out.”
“I’ve been doing damage control for the past five days…It’s over, Carrie,” he says, without sparing me a single glance.
“Jake. You know me. I love you. You know I would never, ever do anything to hurt you.”
“I know nothing.” His chin lifts and his gaze meets mine. It’s completely shuttered. “I know I told you something no one else on the planet knew, and now it’s everywhere.”
Grabbing the overstuffed duffle bag, he walks past me without touching or looking at me. Like I’m beneath contempt. He doesn’t even pause by the door. He walks right out of my life as if he’d never been the best part of it.
“Are you sure?” Hal looks like he’s in physical pain.
“No. But I’ve got to get out of here and I’ll listen to what they have to say.”
The Huffington Post made me an offer. It’s nowhere near as good as Ben’s was. However, the Post isn’t a rat sucking traitor like Ben is.
I figured out how Ben broke the story. Ben did not break the story…I did.
We rented out the Hemingway a few days after Jake checked out. The new Mr. and Mrs. Elmendurst liked to have vigorous sex in the shower. I heard every single word of their dirty talk from the other side of the wall.
So in the end, Jake was right. It was all