Lessons In Losing It (Study Abroad Book 4)

by Jessica Peterson

  I knew Fred for all of three weeks. I should be over him by now. I should at least be feeling better—feeling like there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.

  But I’m only feeling worse. My unhappiness only seems to grow, no matter how well everything else in my life is going. And this internship is going really well. I’m learning a lot, I’m networking with awesome people. I get to live and breathe sports all day, every day.

  But I’m unhappier than I’ve ever been—the kind of unhappiness that plagues me night and day, that ruins otherwise fun things or exciting things or things that would usually make me delirious with joy.

  Even Tournament of Kings has lost its luster; I can’t make it through a single episode without throwing the remote at my TV, too disgusted to watch Prince Jacoby make out with his fairy princess paramour (I kid you not) one.more.time.

  I’m doing everything I can to get over Fred. I’m throwing myself into my work, I’m hanging out with friends, I’m trying to meet new people.

  None of it is helping.

  I blink, swallowing the lump in my throat. Not again. Jesus, I don’t want to cry at work again.

  “Hey,” Brendan says as we’re pulling out of the restaurant parking lot. The air conditioning blasts directly into my face. I close the vent. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I reply, sniffling. “Sorry. My allergies have been crazy ever since I got back from Spain.”

  I think Brendan bought that excuse the first few times I cried at work. Now, though? Now I’m not sure what he makes of it. Frankly, I’m too tired to care; I haven’t slept well in months.

  Brendan offers me a tissue and takes me to one of the basketball gyms, where the men’s team is running some drills. I may not be happy at the gym, but Brendan knows at least I won’t cry there.

  So, yeah. Today is supposed to be great. Every day is supposed to be great. I’m slaying my dream internship. I’m doing what I love. I even got Mom to come around to the idea of sports medicine—kinda—and while she’s not thrilled, she’s not pushing the surgery thing anymore. I’m surrounded by my Meryton friends, the few authentic ones I’ve managed to find.

  But today is decidedly not great. I’m starting to think I may never have a great day again as long as Fred is gone.

  I’m starting to think I made the wrong choice.

  ***

  I crack open a can of my favorite beer—I can’t find the good Bavarian stuff in Durham, so I’ve been drinking a sorry local substitute instead—and collapse onto the sofa. I’m exhausted, but sleep’s still going to be hard to find. Might as well pass the time as painlessly as possible; sports highlights should do the trick.

  I turn on my favorite channel. Grateful for the chance to tune out and forget the painful numbness inside my chest, I settle into the cushions, draining my beer. God, this stuff is gross. I thought I was a beer snob before I met Fred, but now I’m a freaking purist. He’s ruined me for even the best craft beers America has to offer.

  God damn him.

  I set the empty bottle on the coffee table. When I look back up at the TV, my heart seizes.

  It’s Fred.

  He’s on the screen, dashing across the wide expanse of a green pitch as he makes an assist for the game-winning goal that nabbed Madrid its thirty-third league title last week. Sports shows can’t get enough of this footage; Fred’s assist is epic, as he outguns several rival forwards and keeps precise control of the ball meter after meter.

  He is deliciously sweaty, his wet shirt plastered to his body as he dashes down the length of the field. His hair is stuck to his forehead; his eyes are narrowed, intense with concentration. He looks so good out there. So ferocious and confident.

  Seeing this clip kills me, every time.

  Every time I’m plunged into a sadness so acute I can’t breathe.

  Does he ever think about me, I wonder? I haven’t heard a word from him since the day he left my dorm room after we broke up. To be fair, football has kept him busy; Madrid went on a winning streak this spring, thanks in no small part to Fred. He’s dominating—he’s had more assists and goals in the past four months than he has in the past two years combined.

  Go figure. The second we break up, Fred starts playing his best football ever.

  I also wonder who he talks sports with these days. He’s not very close with his teammates, and I know his mom and his sister aren’t crazy about football. There’s so much I want to tell him—so much I want to ask him, about his footwork and how his knee is doing and what he thinks about the current shake-up in British soccer. I’d love to know his opinion on this new rehab regimen I’m learning about.

  I’d love to show him around Meryton’s impressive sports complexes. I know he’d be as jazzed about it as I am.

  God, I miss him.

  I miss him so freaking much.

  I pick up my cell phone from the cushion beside me. This part of the day—the part where I pull up his number and stare at—usually happens much later, when I’m laying in bed, aching with insomnia. Aching for him.

  I’ve been so tempted to text him. How have you been?, maybe. Something quick and casual. Have you finished the last Harry Potter yet?

  Sometimes, on really bad nights, I’ll even type the text out. But I have the good sense not to send it. There’s no point. A text isn’t going to change the fact that Fred is living his life—his best life—five thousand miles away.

  I start when my phone starts to ring. It’s Mom. I don’t smile, exactly, but I also don’t start to sweat, either. When it comes to our relationship, I consider that progress.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say with a sigh.

  “You sound blue,” she says. “Bluer than yesterday.”

  Her concern makes my throat swell. “I’m okay. I had a great day at work, so that’s nice.”

  “That is nice. I’m not at all surprised the internship is going well—I always knew you’d be fantastic at whatever you chose to do.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate that. I’m just…ugh, having a bad week I guess.”

  A bad week. Bad month. Bad year.

  “It’s Fred, isn’t it?” Mom says, gently. “You still miss him.”

  I suck in a breath. Fred is a sensitive subject between me and Mom. I know she was glad—relieved, maybe, is a better word—when I told her we broke up. I understand why; I mean, I was pretty much planning to run away with a foreign guy I’d known for all of a month. She was right to be concerned.

  So imagine my surprise when she says, “You know, it may be time to start thinking about how the two of you can be together.”

  “What?” I blurt. “But I thought—you said—”

  “I know what I said,” she replies. “I’m sorry I was so…harsh. I wasn’t aware how clearly attached you’d become to him. I mean, you’re still thinking about this man how many months later. That says something.”

  I blink, hard, against the sting of tears. Mom’s never referred to Fred as a man before. She always calls him “your European kidnapper” or “that foreign boy with the crooked nose”.

  “What do you mean, that says something?”

  It’s Mom’s turn to sigh. “It means he must be special. You’re a smart girl, Rachel. You make good decisions. I had assumed—wrongly, might I add—that because you’re so young, you might fall for a guy who was bad for you. That you might bring home…I don’t know, a bad boy with a motorcycle and a mom tattoo.”

  “You really think I’d fall for a guy with a mom tattoo?” I say, laughing. “Bad boys are so not my jam.”

  “I know,” mom says, and now she’s laughing, too. “Well, now I know that. You don’t like many guys, period. You’ve had, what, all of one boyfriend?”

  “Psssh,” I say. “I’d hardly call Eric a boyfriend. He was more of a—”

  “Don’t want to know,” Mom says. “My point is, you don’t fall for boys very often. You always said they were dumb, or superficial, or ‘just friend material’. But the fact that you’ve clear
ly fallen so hard for Fred—that tells me he’s different. Different enough to stand out in all the best ways.”

  Oh, God, now I’m going to cry for real.

  “He is,” I say, my voice thick. “That’s exactly what he is—he’s different. He’s my kind of different. And I’m really struggling to get over him. I thought I made the right choice, coming home to do this internship. But now I’m not so sure.”

  “You made the smart choice, yes. I’m proud of you for that. Or rather, you should be proud of yourself for making such a difficult decision. But that doesn’t mean you’re married to it. That doesn’t mean you can’t go back and revise, maybe make some changes. Your personal life—Rachel, it’s important. Look at me. I have barely any life outside of work…”

  “And?”

  She takes a deep breath. “And I wish I did. I like my work. It’s important to me, the same way I want your work to be important to you. But it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. The money is great, sure. I get a lot of satisfaction from being good at what I do. At the end of the day, though, it’s not my work that makes me happy. It’s you. It’s your dad.”

  My pulse hiccups.

  “I make you happy?” I swipe the heel of my hand across my cheek. “Really?”

  “Really. I know I don’t always act like it. But you’re my reason for everything, Rachel. I want the best of everything for you. And it seems like Fred is pretty freaking awesome. The best of the best.”

  She’s right.

  Holy shit, Mom is actually giving me good advice.

  “He is,” I say, sniffling. “But what am I supposed to do? I can’t just uproot my life here—he can’t just leave Spain—”

  “Let’s sleep on it,” mom says. “We’ll figure something out, okay?”

  I nod and I smile and I thank her. I do feel better, if only because I feel like I’m truly turning a corner in my relationship with Mom. She’s never been so real with me before. So honest. She’s trying, hard, and I appreciate that.

  Deep down, though, I’m not so sure we’ll find a happy solution to my problem. It’s been six months, for God’s sake. I haven’t moved on, but there’s a good chance Fred has. Plus my senior year starts in a month and a half; I’m taking important classes, classes I need if I want to get into graduate school.

  Fred is the best of the best. But that doesn’t mean we’re meant to be together.

  That doesn’t guarantee us a happy ending.

  Chapter 22

  Fred

  June

  Formentera, Spain

  The pages of my book flutter and stick in the salty sea air. I read the last sentence once, twice, three times, willing myself to feel something. Anything. Grief or satisfaction or triumph. I mean, I just finished the seventh and final book in the series I’ve been working through for the past year.

  Once upon a time, I loved the characters. I may or may not have dabbled in writing some especially awful fan fiction about Harry taking up football after he graduates from Hogwarts.

  But when I set my copy of Harry Potter and the Dealthy Hollows on the sand beside my ice cold beer, all I feel is tired.

  I glance at the line of beach chairs beside mine. Mama is lying back, eyes closed, her nose lathered in white zinc sunscreen. Sophie is digging sand out of Lilli’s mouth under the shade of an umbrella; nearby, her husband scoops out a moat around their lopsided sandcastle.

  Alexsandr may be wearing giant mirrored sunglasses, but even so, I can tell he’s staring at the girls sunbathing topless down near the water. I asked him to join our family holiday on a whim, never expecting he’d accept the invitation. But three days into our two-week trip, and already Mama has adopted him as her second son. I suppose I’ve finally made a friend on the squad.

  It’s wonderful, being surrounded by family and friends like this. Especially after the squad’s epic streak this spring that nabbed us the league title we’ve been chasing all year. My agent renegotiated my contract for an obscene amount of money—money that’s paying for this extended holiday. I’m playing well. Exceptionally well. There are whispers I’m Madrid’s next big breakout star.

  My career is better than it’s ever been. Everything I ever dreamed of—everything I ever hoped for—it’s happening.

  But the satisfaction this brings me doesn’t compare to the desolation I feel at not having Rachel here with me to talk all things Dealthy Hollows.

  I feel her absence like a paper cut that won’t heal. Just when I think I’m okay, a fresh wave of pain reminds me I’m not.

  No one can talk Harry Potter like Rachel. Mama doesn’t get my obsession with it; Sophie is waiting to read the books until Lilli is old enough and they can do it together. And Alexsandr—I love the bloke, but I don’t think he’s read anything outside of Maxim in years.

  There’s so much I want to tell Rachel. Ask her. Does she think Hermoine and Ron make it in the long run? Is Ginny really the one for Harry? And what about this new book Rowling recently came out with—has Rachel read that one, too? Is it worth my time? What should I read next?

  I grab my beer and take a long, hard swallow. Rachel would like this stuff; it’s Spanish, refreshing and malty, just a hint of hops. Perfect for the beach.

  I wonder what she’s drinking these days. Who she’s drinking with.

  I wonder if she’s as miserable as I am.

  When the fuck am I going to get over her? It’s been six bloody months already. I should’ve moved on a while back.

  But I haven’t. And I don’t know what to do about it.

  I drain my beer and set it back on the sand. I look out over the crystal-clear sea, the blues of the water so bright they make my chest hurt. Christ, it’s beautiful here. Beautiful, and quiet. The arid hills of Ibiza are visible in the distance; Formentera is that flashy island’s demure little sister, with restaurants and a few hotels and not much else. In other words, it’s perfect for a bloke like me.

  Perfect for Rachel, too. She’d love it here. She’d love its quaintness, its small pleasures. The paella, the cold beer. The smell of the sea.

  I wish she were with me.

  I don’t realize I’m clutching the plastic edges of my chair until Sophie is standing next to me, Lilli slung on her hip, her mouth twisted in concern.

  “Let go,” she says.

  “What?”

  “The chair—you hold it in the grip of death. Let go. And come walk with me by the water.”

  I relax my hands. “If it’s okay, I think I’ll just stay here. I’m knackered.”

  “You and Lilli, you nap together when we return. But now, we walk. Come.” She holds out her free arm.

  Lilli coos.

  I sigh.

  I let Sophie pull me to my feet. I take the baby from her, and then we head toward the water.

  ***

  Sophie and I walk in silence along the edge of the water. Lilli turns a seashell over in her hands, transfixed. My feet sink into the sand, the water lapping at my toes.

  There’s not a cloud in the sky; the sun is bright and hot on my shoulders. The heat feels good. Cleansing, almost.

  “You are not okay,” Sophie says, breaking the silence.

  Lilli drops the seashell. I narrowly avoid impaling my foot on it.

  “How do you know that?” I ask, quietly.

  “You do not wash your hairs for many days,” she says. “Also, you let the one love of your life go.”

  “Love of my life?” I cock a brow in an attempt to appear less rattled by this than I am. “Sophie, I’m twenty-two. There will be others. I mean, yeah, I miss Rachel. And I regret that we couldn’t make it work. But it’s been six months now. She has her life in the states, I have my life in Spain…”

  Sophie slows her stride. Looks at me. “Fred, stop fooling yourself. You have no life at all without her.”

  I look away, slipping my thumb into Lilli’s tiny fist. She squeezes it, hard, and I am glad for the distraction from the pain gathering in the very center of my chest.<
br />
  “I have a life,” I say. “A very nice life.”

  “You have very nice things,” she says. “A very nice job. Nice flat. Nice holidays. But they are just things. They have no meaning for you. Not without Rachel.”

  Sophie’s words are like a well-aimed arrow, piercing my breastbone, slicing through my heart. She’s right.

  I don’t have a life without Rachel. Yeah, I go through the motions, I do what I need to do. But none of it feels…I suppose none of it feels like it fucking matters anymore.

  “You’re right,” I say, quietly. “But what the hell can I do about it? I can’t just pick up and leave Madrid after winning the title—”

  “Yes, you most certainly can.”

  “No, I can’t. Sophie, you’ve read the papers. You know how much money they’re paying me. My future is here, in Spain.”

  “You don’t need that money.”

  “What? Of course I need it! I’ve been working since I was fourteen bloody years old for that money. You’ll get some of it, too, you know.”

  “You’re a sweet brother. But I don’t need your monies. Neither do you.”

  “Pfsh! I’ve got to pay the bills somehow!”

  “I know you, Fred. And I know you save much money these past years. You will be fine.”

  That is true. I’ve spent some money buying my car and my flat. Other than that, though, I haven’t laid out much cash. I’ve been too busy working.

  Still. The thought of leaving millions of euros on the table makes my stomach hurt.

  I sigh. “I’ll be fine, yeah. But I can’t walk away from the club. Not now.”

  “Listen to me, Fred. You didn’t leave home just to play football and make money.” Sophie looks at me. “You left to be happy. You weren’t going to be happy here, so you left. And you’re not going to be happy in Madrid. Not without Rachel. So now you must leave there, too.”

  This arrow’s bite is worst than the one she hit me with before. It’s so bad I suck in a breath.

  It’s true. Bloody hell, it’s so true. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been sleeping. I’m scared to go back to Madrid after the summer holiday because I know football isn’t going to be enough anymore. It’s not going to keep me going the way it has all these years.