Page 83 of Shattered Crown
The thought floated up from somewhere. Automatic. Meaningless.
You're going to be okay.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand.
He's just another man. You'll be fine. You'll get over it.
I pushed myself to my feet. My reflection caught my eye in the mirror. Mascara smeared. Eyes swollen. Silk blouse ruined.
I looked away.
An hour later, my bags were packed.
I moved through the room without feeling anything, packing my things. The sundresses in the closet. The sandals by the door. The book on the nightstand with the pressed flower marking my place.
Sebastian's shirt was still on the bed. I left it where it lay.
I wrote a note for Mr. Kahale. Short. Apologizing for my abrupt departure. Thanking him for his hospitality. Meaning none of it and all of it at once.
I didn't write a note for Sebastian.
There was nothing left to say.
The car took me to the airport. The plane took me to New York. Ten hours over the ocean. Ten hours of distance growing between who I'd been and who I was now.
I stared out the window at the endless blue below and told myself the hollow feeling in my chest was just exhaustion.
It wasn't heartbreak.
It couldn't be heartbreak.
I wouldn't let it be heartbreak.
18SEBASTIAN
She's gone.
I stood in her empty room, staring at the closet where her clothes used to hang. The hangers were still there, swaying slightly from when I'd opened the door. Empty. All of them empty.
The bathroom counter was bare. No toothbrush. No little bottles of whatever she put in her hair to make it smell like coconut. No makeup bag spilling its contents across the marble.
The book on the nightstand was gone. The one with the pressed flower.
My shirt was still on the bed. Folded neatly, like she'd taken the time to smooth out the wrinkles before leaving it behind.
She didn't want anything of mine.
I picked it up. Held it. The fabric still smelled like her perfume, faint but there, and something cracked open in my chest.
She's gone. And it's my fault.
I sank onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under my weight. I could still see the indent in the pillow where her head had been this morning. Could still feel the ghost of herbody pressed against mine, her breath warm on my neck, her hand resting over my heart.
She’d slept in my arms just last night.
Now she was somewhere over the Pacific, flying away from me, and I had no one to blame but myself.
How had I managed to screw this up so badly?
