Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3) Page 28

  “Maybe that’s true, and maybe it isn’t,” she says, quietly. “I know you think you just want to do right by your family. But I wonder how much longer you can keep pretending.”

  “Keep pretending what?”

  She meets my gaze. “That what you want doesn’t matter.”

  I roll my eyes, even as her words pierce my heart like an arrow. I hit the elevator button. “Are you done? Monica’s waiting.”

  The elevator doors open. Laura moves through them, shoulders slumped. My heart thumps in my chest, an ominous, painful reminder of the hateful things I said and did. It’s too late to take them back.

  Laura turns inside the elevator and looks at me one last time. She takes a breath, her lips part.

  Then the doors slide shut, and she’s gone.

  Chapter 32

  Laura

  The Next Day

  I set the last stack of neatly folded clothes into the enormous suitcase laid out on my bed. A semester’s worth of work and memories, reduced to a fifty-pound bag. There’s my new jeans, the ones in the bigger size; a manila folder filled with all the essays I wrote for my classes; and then there’s a Madrid home jersey, number 5, a signature scrawled in Sharpie marker on the top right shoulder.

  Rhys’s signature. Rhys’s jersey.

  I wipe away the tears that spill from my swollen eyes. I know healing a broken heart takes time, but I’m already impatient for this grieving period to be over. I’m morbidly exhausted, for one thing. For another, maybe Rhys isn’t worth crying over. He was such an asshole last night. I’m still trying to wrap my head around some of the awful things he said to me. Part of me believes the guy who said those things wasn’t Rhys. The Rhys I knew and loved would’ve never pushed me down. But then part of me believes I deserved every word.

  I grab the jersey and toss it in the trash. It’s just a reminder of how stupid I was to ever think I belonged in his world. I’m not blazing with confidence and happiness, like Monica Cruz. I never will be. I gave my bucket list the old college try, but it didn’t work. I feel more insecure and more unhappy than ever.

  I just suck.

  I plop into my chair and rub my eyes. God they’re sore from all the crying. I wonder if it’s late enough to go to bed. It’s got to be close to eight by now. At least I hope it’s close to eight. I just want this day—this semester—to be over.

  It’s a depressing feeling.

  I take a deep breath, let it out. I need to snap out of it. It requires a lot of energy, beating yourself up like this. Energy I need to save for the trip back home.

  My phone dings—a text—just as I reach for it. My stomach flips. I hate myself for admitting this, but I can’t help but hope that it’s Rhys. Maybe he’s feeling as miserable as I am—

  I pick up my phone. It’s a group text from Maddie. She sent it to me, Viv, and Rachel.

  Mujeres. It’s our last nite together in Spain. Throw your shit in a suitcase, then let’s tear it up 1 more time. Meet at Atico? Wear your drinking pants.

  I let my head fall back. The last freaking thing I feel like doing right now is getting dressed up and going to our favorite discoteca, Ático. I want to lick my wounds in private. I’ve had a rough couple days, and the temptation to wallow in self-pity while listening to sad Coldplay songs is too strong to resist.

  Sorry ladies, I text back. Don’t think I’ll make it. Thx for the invite tho.

  Rachel responds right away.

  Fuck that noise. Laura, you are coming out. Don’t make me come to your dorm and drag you out. You know I will.

  This makes me laugh.

  Its our last nite, Maddie adds. Don’t let that dbag idiot with the manbun ruin it! You know you will regret not coming.

  I bite my lip.

  I have an early flight, I text.

  Viv responds. You can sleep it off on the plane. That’s what 9 hr flights are for.

  I laugh again. After the heaviness of the past week, it feels good to contemplate something other than my impending doom. Plus, a glass (and by that I mean a pitcher) of red wine sangria does sound delightful.

  Pleeeeeaaassseee, Rachel texts.

  I was starting to think this semester was a total bust—I was starting to think that absolutely nothing good came out of it—but I was wrong.

  I was wrong because in my self-pity stupor, I forgot about the Madrileñas. I guess because I’ve always had a boyfriend, I haven’t had many close girlfriends; Em was pretty much the only one until I came to Spain. But that changed when I met Maddie and Viv and Rachel. They’ve been by my side all semester long; they’ve laughed and cried and danced with me; they’ve been there for me when no one else was.

  They love me like a sister. So, yeah, I may be going back to Philly with a broken heart and a shattered ego. But I’ll be going back with three new best friends. In my book, that’s a giant win.

  All right, I text, you guys wore me down. Where shall we meet? And what is everyone wearing besides drinking pants?

  I stand up and wipe my eyes one last time. Enough of all this wallowing, this self hatred. Yeah, things didn’t work out with Rhys, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I am a total waste of life. Rhys may not love me, but my friends do. I don’t deserve to be treated like shit just because I’m not perfect.

  I’m not perfect. But I’m fun, damn it, and I deserve to be loved.

  I’m worth it.

  I am going to be the girl I always wanted to be, come hell or high water.

  And that girl would go out with her friends on her last night abroad.

  So I wash my face and I put on some eyeliner. I dig my heels out of my suitcase and get dressed in jeans and a sparkly top. I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. I look…mehhhhh. Not amazing. Thankfully Spaniards like their bars dark and their discotecas even darker.

  But you know what? I feel all right. I feel pretty stoked, actually, and pretty lucky, too. I get to go out in Madrid with my best friends one last time.

  I miss Rhys like crazy. I feel like I’m walking around with a hole, a physical, burned-out hole, in my chest. But learning to love myself means loving my mistakes, too. I may really, really miss Rhys—God, I can hardly breathe I miss him so much—but I refuse to let what a guy thinks of me define my entire existence.

  I’m done with him. Which means I can begin working on me.

  ***

  Rhys

  That Day

  I may be on crutches, but I make it a point to be seen at training on Thursday morning; it’s our last session before we all head home for the holidays. I want the news crews and the owners and most of all the lads to see that despite the maelstrom that’s followed me the past few days, I’m still Rhys Maddox, I’m still here, I’m still going to do right by everyone. I try to wave to the cameras and smile with the lads.

  But it’s more of a struggle than ever.

  I can’t shake feeling that Laura is right, that I can’t keep pretending I’m happy to live my life according to the expectations of my family, my team, my sponsors.

  I felt so fucking alive with her. Now that she’s gone, I feel dead inside.

  But I’ve got to move on. A few sponsors decided to stick with me, and in an effort to show them that I’m more responsible and dedicated than ever, I’m back to my usual regime of eat, work, sleep, repeat. I’m basically back to the career obsessed person I was before Laura’s bucket list took over my life. I said I didn’t have time for a girl before, but now I really don’t have time. My life is literally on the line. I can’t chase after Laura. What if we end up having a fight in public? I can’t risk another blow to the fragile relationships I have with my sponsors and my squad.

  I mean, what would the headlines be if the press knew I was back together with Laura? Idiot Maddox Dumps Madrid’s Sweetheart for Unpredictable American Who Called Him an Alcoholic? Okay, that’s a ridiculous headline, but still. I can’t risk it.

  I wait for all the good attention I’m getting to lift my spirits, like it usua
lly does. I adore being adored. Or I used to, because it meant I wasn’t my father, it meant I could give Mags and mum everything they ever wanted but thought they could never have.

  But I feel worse. Much, much worse, knowing I’ve got Spain’s love—well, sort of—but not Laura’s. Knowing that adoration came at such a high price. The way she looked at me in the elevator...

  I hate myself for bringing her so low.

  Practice ends, and I hobble toward our training facility as the other lads jog past me. I catch Olivier moving toward me from the corner of my eye. I up my pace. I’m not in the mood for whatever ridiculous shit he’s in the mood to expound upon. Now, more than I ever, I need to stay focused, stay positive, so I can recover as quickly as possible and be an asset to my club.

  But Olivier will not be thwarted, per usual. He slows to an elegant stop beside me, running a palm over his bald head to wipe away a sheen of sweat.

  “Petit Chou, and how iz ze bum heart—oh! I mean—bum knee today?”

  I slant him a glare and grunt. “It hurts.”

  He holds his hands behind his back and nods sagely. God he can be annoying. Who does he think he is? Gandalf? Or that other wizard from Harry Potter—Dumbledoo?

  “’ave you ’eard from Laura?”

  I roll my eyes. “I have no idea what you just said.”

  “Stop playing zat game, it iz very stupid, just like you,” he replies. “What you did wiz zat model girl at ze auction, it was ’orrible! Just ’orrible. I know you do not love ’er. You love your little duck Laura. You miss ’er, I know you, and I know your heart. I see you do not sleep, you do not eat. You look very bad.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “That’s just what I needed to hear after banging up my knee and being embarrassed in front of the entire world. You’re the fucking best, Olivier.”

  He shrugs. “Ze truth, it ’urts sometimes. I do not want to see you ’urting, my dear friend. I am sorry my words, zey can be mean, but I only say zees zings because I want to see you ’appy. Laura made you ’appy. And now, wizout ’er, you are not ’appy.”

  “You’re actually quite miserable,” Fred says.

  I jump at the sound of his voice. He’s one step behind us, his thick blond hair stuck to the sweat on his forehead, his hands on his hips as he looks down at me.

  “Why do you keep doing that?” I growl.

  “Doing what?” he says.

  “Appearing out of nowhere like James goddamn Bond. For someone so big, you move really quietly.”

  Fred shrugs. “It’s a gift.”

  “No it’s not.”

  “Anyway,” Olivier says. “Laura loves you, yes? The ’eart and soul of you, not your moneys or your fame or your pretty hair.”

  My anger softens, just the tiniest bit. I slow down. God I’m tired.

  When the hell did I get so tired?

  “I get what you’re saying, Olivier. And I don’t disagree. But you realize I can’t take your advice about Laura loving me for me seriously when you’re a guy who seduces pop stars in his bathroom waterfall,” I say.

  It’s Olivier’s turn to shrug. “I play around for a bit, ’ave much fun wiz all ze ladies of ze Earth. But soon, I look for love. And when I do, I find a girl just like your little duck. Brave. Strong. Very fun, full of life.”

  I blink. “I know. She’s—Laura is all of those things. All of them. But she’s gone and I can’t focus on this right now. I need to lay low, I need to get better so I’m not cut from the squad. I need to make the few sponsors I have left happy. The media circus around Laura and me has finally died down, and stirring that up again could be the nail in my coffin. I’ve got to think about my family—they need so much bloody help...”

  Olivier arches a brow. “You can still ’elp your family, Cabbage, wizout zem taking over your lifes. What you try to do for zem is very noble, but it is ’urting you, it ’urts your ’appiness. I meet your mummy. I see she is very nice lady. She only ask that her son be ’appy. Give your mummy and your family what you can. But when you put all your energies into saving zeir lives, you have no energies to enjoy your life. Do I make sense to you?”

  My heart turns over in my chest. What Olivier is saying makes perfect sense. It’s such a difficult thing to let go of, living every moment in the hope of making life better for the people I love.

  But when did it become my job to kill myself to do that? When did I start sacrificing my own happiness so they could have theirs? I don’t know when I lost the freedom to seek out my own life and my own happiness, but Laura gave that freedom back to me. She made me see that what I thought I wanted—to show my family I wasn’t my father by providing for them in a way he never could—had nothing at all to do with what I really want. And that is to be free to be me, to live in the moment and enjoy my life.

  Things I only did when I was with Laura.

  Living like this—living solely to provide for my family—it isn’t right. But damn it, how on earth could I make things right without losing my sponsors, my place on the squad? And after our fight, Laura would never in a million years take me back.

  “You do make sense.” I look out over the pitch, squinting against the early afternoon sun. “I was happy when I was with Laura. I really was. But the fight we had last night…I said some things. Bad things. I hope she forgets them, and forgets me, and moves on…”

  My eyes burn at the thought of Laura being with someone else. I look away so the lads don’t see. It’s just the sun, I assure myself. It’s making my eyes water.

  But my heart—my heart tells me I’m full of it.

  “I have to move on, too,” I manage. “It’s not meant to be. Trust me, even if I tried, she’d never take me back. And this morning, Cristina assured my sponsors—”

  “Bullshit,” Fred says. “You can make it happen, Cabbage. You have to try, at least. She turned your life, and your game, around. You owe her that much.”

  I start to move more quickly. “She’s leaving tomorrow and she’s not coming back.”

  I should be relieved Laura’s leaving so soon. Her being gone will also help the media maelstrom to blow over a bit more quickly. If I cared more about my career than I did about her, this would be good news. I should be feeling good about it all.

  “Follow ’er,” Olivier says, holding open the door for me. “Go to America and get ’er back. Forgive ’er. Make ’er yours. It is very clear to me your ’ead—and your game—will not be okay until you make ’er yours. Go after ’er. Now. There iz not one moment to spare.”

  My knee starts to throb. My anger returns with a vengeance. Anger at Olivier. At myself. It’s too late. I’m too late.

  “What part of ‘it’s not meant to be’ don’t you understand?” I say. “We’re done, Olivier. I’m fucking done with her.”

  Chapter 33

  Rhys

  My flat is quiet when I hobble through the door. I used to like the quiet; I used to think it was an essential part of my routine. I couldn’t sleep if there was so much as a leaky faucet disrupting the silence, the drip drip drip keeping me up, keeping me from getting the ten hours of sleep I thought I needed to feel rested for training the next day. It would drive me absolutely bonkers.

  Now the silence feels oppressive. It’s a reminder that my flat is empty.

  It’s a reminder that Laura isn’t here anymore.

  I hobble to the kitchen and open the fridge. My chef left a bit of the usual—boiled chicken, some cauliflower—but even though I’m starving, the thought of eating that flavorless tosh depresses me beyond words. Instinctively, I dig into my pocket for my mobile, thinking I’ll call Laura, maybe ask her to meet me for some deliciously unhealthy tapas at this place down the street we’ve been wanting to try…

  I blink, remembering that I can’t call Laura. That I pushed her away for good.

  For a second I can’t breathe, knowing I’ll never try that restaurant with her. I’ll never do anything with her again.

  I busy myself scouring the kitchen for
something else, anything else, opening drawers, digging through cabinets. It hits me that I don’t know my way around my own bloody flat. I paid good bit of money to renovate the place; I thought mum might come to live with me for a bit when Maggie went off to Oxford, and I wanted it to be cushy and luxurious in a way our house back in Cardiff never was. I wanted to impress her.

  I slam a drawer shut and splay my hands on the countertop. Sure, all the marble and the furniture and the fancy appliances are impressive. Mum will probably love it.

  But what does that matter if I don’t feel at all at home here? If it will never feel like home as long as Laura is somewhere else.

  I lean into my hands as regret chokes me. It hits me, knocking the wind from my gut like a rogue pass gone wrong.

  Christ have mercy, I’ve cocked up. There’s no way I can live here without Laura. I don’t want to. I don’t want to anything without Laura. She’s home, and I am completely lost without her.

  The quiet presses in on me. Yes, Laura helped make a mess of my life. I’m out most my sponsors and money. I don’t know what will become of me. I don’t know when I’ll be back on the pitch, or if I’ll be any good once I’m there.

  But I do know that no matter what happens next—good, bad, or ugly—I’ll be okay, happy, even, as long as Laura is with me.

  I am scared out of my mind that I’ve lost her. I used to think that falling for a girl would distract me from my first and only love—footy. But Olivier was right (of course). Falling in love with Laura has focused me. It’s not only made me a better player, it’s made me a better man. A man who is worlds better than my father, anyway.

  I’ve been so scared for so long that I’d follow in his footsteps. But with Laura, I’m not scared anymore. I like who I am with her. I love how she makes me feel. I know I’ll never end up like dad if I’m with her because she makes me happy. Dad was never happy. He never found his happily ever after.