After the betrayal of his ex and the disintegration of his heart, Harry convinces himself he'll never love again. That is until the bride walks down the isle and she's dressed head to toe in white. Only it's not his wedding, and it's not his bride...
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| CHAPTER FOUR |
Without looking at me, Rowena sits down and takes her glass between her fingers. I join a moment later. She won't look at me; I think she's about to cry but I can't say for certain. I hope she doesn't cry, she's far too pretty for that.
Drew loves her. You aren't supposed to make the ones you love cry. I don't realise my hands are curled into balls until I reach for my glass and my knuckles are blood red from strain. A subtle rage burns through me.
I don't want her to cry, I don't like seeing women cry. How dare he make her cry.
A week ago, I didn't know the woman sitting opposite me existed. I don't know her, not like Drew, or her family or friends. But I know, as I look over the table to her and she looks at me with watery eyes, this isn't the face of a happy woman. Call me intuitive, call me mad. I know a sad face when I see one; I know because I've been looking at one in the mirror for months.
"Please don't cry. He doesn't mean to upset you, he's just..."
"Drew," she completes.
"The blow of disappointment weakens overtime, trust me," I assure.
"Glad to know I'm not the only one." She sniffles.
"Far from it."
She's smiling now; my heart does that unexplainable thing again. I scorn myself, bruise my heart and tell it to play fair.
This isn't fair—none of it is. I shouldn't have come here today. I should have sat in my cold apartment on my lonesome and wallowed in a bottle of self-pity and gin. Somehow, I'm here, tormenting myself and daring the cards. By the time I realise it's too late to turn back, I've dug myself a grave. Now I'm sat here, staring at my best friend's girl and wishing I could touch her thigh again because she has nice skin and it's been a while since I enjoyed the contact of anyone else but myself over my crotch on a late Saturday night.
From across the table, our eyes lock. Her gaze is pervasive, consuming my colour, devouring the sin I'm sure lathers my body like perfume. Under her stare, I'm vulnerable and she's tempting my skin with the blisters of her flame. But I look at her with the same intensity, and as she reaches my face again, crumbles. Rowena fidgets in her chair.
"Do you want to go home?" I ask.
She grabs the bottle of wine and stands to her feet–I'll take that as a yes. I follow her footsteps out of the restaurant.
The winter air is merciless as it circles the streets. People walk with their heads down and their frost-bitten cheeks rosy with ice. I turn to Rowena, who stands adorned only in her thin, black dress. She's shivering, her hands crossed over her chest as we wait for a taxi. Why didn't she bring a coat?
