Page 31 of Tears of Glass

“How can I get married, when the woman I love is sat right here and refusing to wear my ring?”

Chapter Nine

There’s a herd of elephants running wild in my head. I’m totally against poaching—but truth, if I had a rifle I’d probably be willing to take off my own head just to shut them up.

I clang a mug out of the cupboard and then bash a spoon against the china as I stir in some instant coffee. Three teaspoons make their way into the mug and about half a pint of milk. It’s either going to cure me or make me sick.

I’m having trouble gluing parts of last night together.

First there was Angela. Then there was Elijah. Followed by sore feet and then Elijah again.

I can’t believe it was real. What did he mean he isn’t getting married? I remember it... he stood there on that stage at Bowsley and waved at everyone, his big gorgeous smile telling everyone how happy he was to be uniting himself with that skinny stick insect.

I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember the way it felt when I packed my bag and discovered Al had gone.

That shattered ache is still in my chest, still stinging and digging in deep. Automatically, my eyes rise to my reflection in the steel fittings of my small kitchen and drop to the sight of Dan’s ink still fresh on my skin.

I mustn’t lose sight of that sharp shard of glass digging into my soul. The last break of trust.

I pull the shattered pieces into my heart and hold them tight even if they make me bleed.

No, Elijah Fairclough made his choice. He played a game with my heart and it’s the only choice he will ever get with me.

There is no second chance for him to change his mind.

I stare at the ink one more time before a spurt of stomach acid makes its way from my knotted stomach up my throat and I run to the bathroom gagging into my hand the whole way. I make it just as sick hits my palm and I lean into the toilet.

Damn Elijah Fairclough.

I was doing perfectly well without him.

“You okay in there?” A gentle rap knocks against the door.

“Yes.”

Gah, I’m not alright. I need to go and sleep for a million years, but then I also need to talk to Angela. I can barely remember a single thing from my meeting with her last night. There are two clear phases of the evening. Pre-Elijah in the navy suit. Then after.

With a tug on the door handle I walk caveman style back to the lounge and flop on the sofa. Dying a white wine death would be so much easier if I was in my own bed and not camping out on the sofa. The covers of the sofa smell musty and my stomach rolls.

Tabitha tiptoes in—she’s actually on her tiptoes—so why is it thudding so loud?

“Feeling pretty rotten, hey?”

I try to move an eyebrow but the loud banging inside my temple has my face frozen like I’ve fallen into a vat of Botox.

“Yep.”

She perches near me. She’s breathing at a thousand decibels. “Do you want to talk now? I mean, about Elijah? You spoke to him last night, right? You know he was just trying to help you?”

I hold my hand up. Someone please excavate my brain.

“Tabs, nothing has changed. He can’t just rock up here and tell me that everything wasn’t what I thought.” Fuck my head. I’m going to puke again. It’s building and growing, ready to rupture like a volcano of spew. Somehow, I manage to force my focus onto her face. “I don’t give second chances.”

Her head shakes from side to side and trying to hold my focus on her makes me seasick. “That’s crap and you know it. Why do you have all these stupid rules? What’s the point of them?”

“That way I don’t get hurt.” I glare. Okay, I don’t glare—but inside I totally am.

“And you aren’t hurting now?” Her pretty little face is flushed. I’m a bad person for arguing with her when she’s going through so much—but then it’s not my fault her brother is I’m-a-twat-Elijah.