The list went on and on.
As if I hadn’t been intimidated enough whenever I was in his presence, now I knew I’d be sharing airspace with a photography god. Sebastian Covington had been hailed by even the toughest critics as a marvel. A creative genius. A breath of fresh air, who captured real human emotion with his lens.
Fae and I read in silence for nearly an hour, eyes skimming simultaneously over articles about his travels. He’d been everywhere we’d ever talked about going together as kids — and he’d done it without me.
Paris.
The Australian Outback.
Thailand.
Belize.
Cape Town.
Iceland.
Buenos Aires.
Fiji.
I felt my heart swell uncomfortably in my chest as jealousy warred with happiness. He’d done it — everything we ever wanted to do together. That made me feel overjoyed, because it meant walking away from him hadn’t all been for nothing. He’d had a great life without me.
And yet, deep beneath the surface in a place I didn’t want to admit existed even to myself, I was tremendously saddened by that knowledge. Irrationally jealous that he’d lived out our dream without me. He’d gone everywhere. Seen everything. And sure, I was living in the best city in the world — but I’d never left the country. Heck, I’d never left the east coast, or even been on an airplane. The most travel I’d ever done was when I rented a truck and drove for two days straight from Atlanta to New York.
There’s a nonsensical dichotomy that exists within you after you break up with someone — especially if it’s someone you loved deeply. A large part of you hopes they’ll move on, be happy, follow their dreams to the fullest.
That’s the side you show the world.
But a smaller part of you, whether you admit its existence or not, secretly and selfishly yearns for a reality in which that person would never move on. Never forget your love, or replace you with someone else; never be fully complete again, without you by their side.
That’s the side we hide away, the innermost part of ourselves that we push down below the socially-acceptable responses to heartbreak.
“You okay?” Fae asked.
“I could use a shot or two of tequila, but considering it’s ten in the morning I should probably wait at least a few more hours.”
“Valid point.”
Having finished his breakfast and gotten dressed for the day, Nate eventually joined us. The three of us spent a few more minutes scrolling through images of Sebastian — at art gallery openings, at awards dinners, in exotic locales — and I felt my stomach turn at the sight of all the women who’d graced his arm. Models, heiresses, accomplished artists — all of them beautiful, wealthy, and a better match for Sebastian than I’d ever been.
When the tears began to threaten, I knew I’d reached my limit so I asked Fae to turn off the computer. Nate slipped one comforting arm around my shoulders and Fae grabbed hold of my hand, and for a while we just sat there in the quiet. I focused on breathing in and out, lost in my thoughts until the door to Simon’s bedroom was thrown open with a metallic bang, and his voice cut through the loft.
“Jeeze, who died?” he asked, walking into the room. “Or are you guys putting together an ensemble audition for a production ofLes Misno one told me about?”
Nate, Fae, and I all burst into laughter at the same moment.