Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3) Page 25

  Laura

  I have the driver take me back to my dorm. Tears roll down my cheeks as I watch Madrid pass by through the window, a tangle of traffic and concrete and people going about their day. I’ve never envied normalcy before—I mean, I am dating a rising soccer star who plays for one of the most famous football clubs in the world—but right now I’d give just about anything to be heading to class, or the grocery store, or the coffee shop, instead of dealing with this mess.

  It feels almost too heavy to bear. Rhys’s anger cut me to the bone. He’s never talked to me like that. I know he’s scared out of his mind and didn’t mean to be such a douche, so I’m not angry with him. I guess I’m just sad. Not until very recently did he let me in on the fact that he’s basically supporting his entire extended family back in Cardiff. He’s trying to care for them in a way his father never could.

  Now he’s staring down the barrel of losing that opportunity for good. My heart fucking hurts for him. I want to help, but I don’t know how. I don’t know if there’s anything I can do, except be there for him if he needs me.

  I need him. I love him. I can’t wait to tell him how much I love him.

  I grab the back of the headrest as the driver nails a sharp right. I swear to God, people in this country drive like lunatics. My stomach flips when I see a row of news vans lined up on the curb in front of my dorm building, satellite poles sticking up like unicorn horns from their roofs. A few people loiter near the front entrance of the building, phones in hand.

  Oh God oh God oh God. I should’ve known the press would show up. They’ve always liked me, praising me on the red carpet and in the papers. I liked them, too. But I have a feeling that’s all about to change.

  Please drop me off here, I say to the driver in stuttering Spanish.

  Here? he asks.

  Here, I say, and brace myself on the headrest again as he brakes to a sudden stop.

  I put on my sunglasses. Climbing out of the taxi, I drop my phone on the sidewalk. My hand shakes as I reach down to pick it up. It’s warm in the sun, but I shiver. I straighten, and look down the block at the news vans. I take another deep breath. It’s too late to use the back entrance; they’ll see me. I just have to push through them and not say a word. Then I can hole up in my dorm for the foreseeable future.

  Reporters descend upon me like vultures on a fresh carcass. Cameras and microphones are thrust in my face. I blink at the barrage of questions, all in Spanish, my heart in my throat.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “Perdón.”

  One reporter—a good-looking guy with a swoop of dark brown hair—steps in front of me, blocking my way.

  “Might I ask you a few questions about Rhys Maddox, Laura?”

  It’s so weird, being addressed by a total stranger like they know you. It’s so weird that he knows my name. I guess everyone will know my name after they read the news this morning.

  “No comment,” I say, and keep my head down. “Please let—”

  “How do you feel about Rhys’s recent behavior?” the reporter asks, smoothly cutting me off. “You were there when he was caught drinking in the street the other night. Does his drinking bother you? How long has he had a drinking problem?”

  Oh, Jesus, this is bad. I keep pushing, moving toward the door.

  “Any word on Rhys’s knee? Have you received the results from the MRI yet?” another reporter asks.

  Do you know his father also had issues with drinking? one says in Spanish.

  Sweat breaks out underneath my arms. My pulse pops around in my ears, a hollow sound. I hear the door to my dorm open. Thank God. I dart up the steps past a tall guy with a backpack and duck through the door just before it closes.

  I run to my dorm room and lock the door behind me. I close the blinds and fall onto the bed, dizzy, exhausted. I don’t take off my jacket or my boots. Instead I sit very still and listen to the commotion outside my window. The reporters are shameless; they stop every student who comes and goes from the building, asking about me, what they know about me and Rhys, if they’ve ever seen us together.

  Bile rises in my throat. My heart is pounding, making me lightheaded. For a second I think I’m going to pass out. This is bad. I don’t know what to do. More than anything I want to call Rhys. He’d usually be the one to make me feel better. But he’s made it clear he pretty much wants nothing to do with me right now, so. Yeah.

  I guess I’ll call Emily. But just as I bring the phone to my ear, I hear footsteps outside my door. I freeze. There’s no way the reporters followed me inside.

  Is there?

  I hang up and duck my head into the hall. A guy I don’t recognize is hanging out by the stairwell. He’s carrying a backpack, and is dressed in jeans and a jacket, very casual, very typical of students who attend my university. Still, his presents puts my teeth on edge. I don’t trust him.

  I go back into my room and look around. I’ve probably watched the Bourne moves one too many times, but I get the feeling someone is listening. That I’m being watched. Which is ridiculous, for a lot of reasons. The press likes me. At least I think they like me. They wouldn’t invade my privacy like that, would they?

  Still. I can’t be too careful. Quietly, I grab my keys and my phone and a hat. I sneak down the hall—making sure the dude by the stairs doesn’t see me—and I head for the back entrance to the building, where the smokers usually hang out. Thankfully the press hasn’t discovered it; no one is waiting for me in the alley. Glancing over my shoulder, I take off down a side street, careful to not make a sound as I head away from the building.

  I pull the hat lower over my sunglasses. I keep walking, one block, then two, then four. I stay on busy streets where it’s loud and the sidewalks are crowded. I keep an eye on my surroundings. When I’m positive that no one has followed me, I stop at a bench that overlooks a small playground. I pull my phone from my pocket.

  “Laura,” Emily breathes when she picks up. “Oh my God, how are you? I’ve been following the story here. I’m so sorry. What the hell happened?”

  I push my fingers underneath my sunglasses to wipe away a tear. “Rhys is in trouble, Em. Big trouble. What the papers are saying—it’s not true, but—”

  “Of course it’s not true. Now tell me what happened.”

  “So, like, you know I volunteer at an after school program—the place is called Santa Caterina?”

  “I do.”

  “Rhys came to Santa Caterina one afternoon to help me find one of my kids, Miguel—he snuck out of the playground, and I was panicking, and I called Rhys to help me find him. Rhys came right away. He was doing a good thing, Em. He was helping me out. The man in the picture, the homeless one, he helped us find the kid, and to thank him, Rhys gave him a bottle of wine and some money.”

  “How did the paparazzi end up there? You told me he’s tipped them off in the past.”

  I look up as a woman in an expensive trench coat passes by. I wait until she rounds the corner to answer Em’s question.

  “I mean, a couple months ago, I wouldn’t put it past Rhys to give the paparazzi a tip that he’d be doing some charity work—you know, so he could turn it into a photo op or whatever. But he isn’t like that anymore. He definitely didn’t call them—some lady who runs a newspaper stand in the neighborhood did. He wasn’t drunk. He was just trying to help this homeless guy out. And because the photographers caught him giving this guy a drink, they’re all saying that Rhys is a drunk, just like his father. It’s so fucked up.”

  “His dad is an alcoholic? I didn’t know that.”

  “I didn’t either, not until about a week ago. The papers are making a field day of the fact that Rhys is predisposed to the disease. Which is true, I guess. But everything else isn’t. And now all his sponsors are dropping him…it’s a fucking mess. He’s a fucking mess—”

  Something taps me on my shoulder. I almost jump. My blood rushes cold. Oh, Jesus, no.

  I turn around, slowly, to see the reporter with the brown hair ho
vering right beside me, holding up his phone.

  He’s recording me.

  Holy shit.

  He’s recording me. That isn’t allowed, is it? I don’t know. This can’t be happening. How the hell did this guy find me?

  The way these guys can spin a story, the way they can take your words and twist them—

  “What the hell!” I rise to my feet. “You can’t do that! Turn it off! Turn that thing off right now, or I’ll call the police.”

  “So,” he says, ignoring my protests, “you’re saying Rhys used your charity work as a way to boost his own reputation. What an awful, selfish thing for him to do, don’t you think?”

  I just stare at him. I know better than to talk to him. He’s egging me on, trying to get a rise out of me. But I won’t take the bait.

  I hear Emily shouting for me on my phone. I hang up and put the phone in my pocket and start walking away. My steps are uneven; I’m worried I’m going to trip and fall.

  “Here you are,” the reporter says, trotting beside me, “volunteering your time to help kids in Madrid’s toughest neighborhood, and Rhys is stumbling around, getting drunk and doing drugs with hobos.”

  I grit my teeth. It takes every ounce of self-control not to tell this guy off. The lies he’s spinning are so egregious, they make me so angry, that I press my fingernails into my palms to keep from shouting at him. Cristina said no talking to the press under any circumstances, and I’m not about to disobey her.

  Then again, maybe I already have without meaning to.

  Shit.

  I start running. He runs after me. I hail the first cab I see and practically throw myself into the backseat. I’m shaking. When I don’t immediately say where I’m going, the driver asks; I tell him to just drive, please, just get me out of here.

  He slams on the gas. Slinking low in the seat, I glance out the back window. The reporter is still on the sidewalk. He’s on his phone, smiling.

  My stomach turns to a block of ice. I have a really bad feeling about what just happened. I don’t know if what that reporter just did is legal. I do know it will thicken an already juicy plot. Papers and gossip sites will pay big bucks for what he just recorded.

  I call Rhys, choking back tears as I wait for him to answer.

  He doesn’t even say hello when he picks up.

  “Laura, I told you I’d call you when the results are in.”

  “Rhys, that’s not what I’m calling about.” I swallow. “Listen, something just happened—”

  “I have to go. Cristina is here, and she’s waiting for me.”

  “But that’s exactly what I’m calling you about. A re—”

  “I don’t have time for this right now. I’m hanging up.”

  “Rhys, just listen, please!”

  “Christ, Laura, I have to go, all right? I’ll call you when we’re done.”

  He makes good on his threat and hangs up on me. My eyes swim with tears as I stare at my phone. The screen goes blank. I understand that he’s on edge today, but he’s really treating me like shit.

  I take a deep breath. Whether or not Rhys wants to talk to me, he has to know about this. Cristina has to head it off before things get really bad.

  I tell the driver to take me to the football club’s training facility.

  ***

  Rhys

  I almost jump when I hear Cristina curse. She’s sitting in one of the training facility’s stiff pleather chairs beside me, a Blackberry clutched in one hand and an iPhone in the other. Cristina never curses. This can’t be good.

  “What?” I say, the muscles in my shoulders tightening. “Cristina, what is it?”

  She spears me with a look of such heated censure I lean back in my chair. “I told you Laura is not to speak to the press.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Of course. I told her that. She knows.”

  “Then why did Nuestro Día just post an audio clip of her saying you’re a drunk on their website?”

  My stomach dips.

  “What?” I say, weakly.

  She holds out her mobile. “Listen for yourself. Apparently this was recorded today.”

  I take it. My stomach dips again. I press turn up the volume and press play

  I wouldn’t put it past Rhys to give the paparazzi a tip that he’d be doing some charity work—you know, so he could turn it into a photo op.

  Rhys is a drunk, just like his father.

  All his sponsors are dropping him…it’s a [bleep] mess. He’s a [bleep] mess.

  What the what? This doesn’t make sense. Laura would never say these things about me. Yeah, I was a dick to her before. But she’s not vindictive like this. The paper is obviously twisting her words.

  “Nuestro Día is trash,” I blurt.

  “Exactly,” Cristina replies. “That’s why everyone reads it.”

  “It iz true,” Olivier says. “Me, I read it every day.”

  “Me too,” Fred says. “Religiously. I gotta get my Hollywood gossip somewhere.”

  “And get this,” Cristina says with a scoff. “The article they wrote up to go with the audio says in so many words that ‘Laura Bennet is much too fine—good, much too good a woman to be with a vain, troubled man like Rhys Maddox’.”

  I blink. “What the fuck? They’re lying. Manipulating what she said. Laura would never say shit like that about me.”

  “That’s not the point,” Cristina says, looking me in the eye. “The point is, she’s making a bad situation worse. She’s confirming everyone’s suspicions—she’s confirming the story that you’re an alcoholic and a liar and a fame whore. If anyone had doubts about the story before—if anyone still believed in you—they don’t anymore. They’ll think it’s true. You’re going to lose whatever sponsors you have left. The team…well. This doesn’t look good for them, either.”

  “She didn’t mean it.” The words sound hollow even to my own ears. “She didn’t want this to happen.”

  Cristina leans toward me. “You’re not hearing me, Rhys. What do Laura’s intentions matter when she destroyed you anyway? Because that’s what she just did. She destroyed you. We could’ve worked some magic before. But now—now that your girlfriend’s coming out and saying that you’re a mess? Telling the world you don’t have anyone in your corner anymore? Now we don’t have a chance in hell. This story is not going to go away.”

  It’s like a blow to the gut. I run a hand down my face as the realization hits me. Before Laura’s lovely little sound bite, I was going to be left with very little once the smoke cleared from this awful mess. But I was still going to be left with something. The chance to rebuild, rebrand, come back from the dead like I did before.

  Now, thanks to Laura, I’m going to be left with nothing. I’m going to be remembered as the guy who not only lost it all; I’m going to be remembered as the guy who deserved to lose it, because I have a mean, black little heart, just like my dad.

  Jesus Christ. I am going to be left with nothing.

  Not a goddamn thing. No sponsors. No popular support. No good press. No friends or money or followers.

  What am I going to do? What is my family going to do? I have a little in savings, but not enough to last us very long. I could sell the flat, but with the renovation I’m probably underwater. I’d sell my car, but it isn’t mine—that sponsor will probably be calling soon to take it back—Aunt Kate’s daughter is in the hospital with pneumonia, and mum says Kate isn’t doing well—everyone back home will hate me—how humiliating it will be, to go back to living with mum, everyone will talk shit behind our backs—what will my fans think? Are they even my fans anymore?

  Panic and anger and helplessness seep in my chest, filling me to the point of bursting. I feel wild with it, unhinged.

  “You have to stay away from Laura,” Cristina says. “She’s toxic to us now. No matter what she says going forward, it’s only going to look like she’s backpedaling—like we’re twisting her arm. No one’ll buy it. From now on, we have to do everything, and I mean
everything, right. You and I both know she can’t help with that.”

  I spear a hand through my hair. I know, in my heart of hearts I know, Laura did not throw me under the bus on purpose. But she still stole from me. She stole my dreams and my purpose. She stole my chance to make things right, to do right by my family.

  And that makes me very, very angry. So angry I can’t bloody see straight. No one fucks with my family. I don’t think Laura would ever intentionally hurt me. But she did exactly what I asked her not to do. And by doing so, she hurt my family, and that’s crossing the line. Laura knew better, and yet she was careless.

  I was right to think getting involved with a girl was a mistake. Laura is not my good luck charm. She is my downfall.

  I will never, ever forgive myself for believing otherwise.

  I look up at the sound of footsteps. It’s William Wallace. His hands are shoved in his pockets; his face is grim.

  “Yer girlfriend is here,” he says. “Waiting at the gate. Says she’s got to see you straightaway.”

  I look at Cristina. She shakes her head, a small, almost imperceptible motion.

  I clasp my hands and rest my elbows on my thighs. I train my gaze on the speckled linoleum floor. I’ve never felt this low. This lonely. This trapped.

  “Turn her away,” I say, gritting my teeth. “She’s not welcome here anymore.”

  A beat passes, and then my phone rings. It’s Laura. I ignore it.

  But when I sneak off to the bathroom a little while later, I listen to the voicemail she left me.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes, Rhys, to make this right,” she says. “Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it. I love you. I’m in love with you, Rhys, and I want to be with you. Please, please don’t hate me for this. I love you.”

  I close my eyes, cover them with my thumb and forefinger. She’s finally saying it—saying she’s in love with me. But I’m way too fucking angry to trust that she’s telling the truth.

  It doesn’t matter anyway. We’re done. Over.

  Chapter 30

  Laura