From Pemberley to Manhattan [COMPLETED]

Chapter 37

Nat

"Patricia", her name tasted like venom in my mouth. She opened her mouth to speak, but I wouldn't give the bitch the chance. "If you dare apologize, I'll smash this bottle on your face."

Of course I wouldn't, no matter how much I wanted to. "Babe, she doesn't mean anything to me. It was just sex. I love you, Nat."

I laughed. Like a maniac about to commit maniac acts. Because, from all the things I could have told Patricia, from all accusations I could have made, nothing could have humiliated her like the jerk's statement. It was so... Deliciously ironic.

"I never listened to people when they claimed you were a snake, Patricia. I had faith in you as a person and, mostly, as a friend. I gave you my loyalty, my friendship. I must have been the only true friend you had in a long time."

A tear escaping her eye told me I was correct. At, least, she wasn't completely cold-hearted.

"Babe, I–"

"Shut your fucking mouth, Doug. I'm not talking to you." I turned back to Patricia, whose face was now wet with her tears. "You've just lost a friend who would be by your side for better or worse. And for what?" I glanced at the jerk with disdain. Funny how beautiful people faded and turned completely unattractive once one discovered their true colors.

"I'm so sor–"

"That was a rhetorical question, Patricia." I couldn't comprehend how, but I was no longer enraged. There was no hate within me, just a big, deep hole in my chest. Letting go of a cheating boyfriend was one thing; there were plenty of fish in the sea. Being betrayed by someone you loved as a friend? That hurt like hundreds of knives perforating me. "Just remember this moment: a precious, rare friend walks out of your life, and you're left with a guy who thinks you're nothing but a vagina and a pair of tits."

She sobbed. His chin dropped. My inner voice sang "We are the champions".

"Nat, I–" The jerk tried to speak again. Hadn't he realized we were over? Nothing he could've said would've made a difference. He didn't even deserve my words, my attention, or even my rage. He deserved only a lot of nothingness, which was what he was to me now.

"I never want to see your fucking faces again." I interrupted him a second time, refusing to even look at him. "And don't you dare follow me."

I went down the stairs in a hurry, apprehensive that one of them would disregard my order and come after me, which would force me to resort to violence. A few seconds after I shut the jerk's door behind me, I heard it open, followed by some woman's shriek. She sounded like an elderly lady. "You're naked! I'm calling the police, young man."

Of course; the jerk thought he still might have a shot with me, since I hadn't accused him or anything. That was where he was mistaken: I hadn't spoken to him because he was dead to me, not because I'd ever forgive him. Actually, forgiveness was a non-existing word in my vocabulary at that moment.

As soon as I hit the street, I burst out crying. I was sobbing uncontrollably for minutes, and thought I was going crazy when I heard a baritone voice with a thick, British accent call my name.

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