Absinthe Of The Heart

by Monica James

  “So go back to Lincoln. Go back to your perfect life where you can shut off and not feel because I can’t give you that. I will always love you even when you don’t love yourself. And I will continue to love you until my heart stops beating.

  “I will never make apologies for loving you because you are a part of me.” He slaps his hand over my name, strengthening his claims. “But it’s obviously too late.”

  I don’t even know when the tears began to fall because everything he said was right. I am bitter, and I have turned into someone I hate. I’ve run away for so long, I don’t even know who I am anymore. But being with London, I remember, and that scares the living shit out of me.

  Deep down, I believe him. I know there is a rational reason this sweater is in his home, but I jumped to conclusions because it was the easy way out. London makes me feel things I didn’t know I was capable of feeling, and I’m scared; I’m scared he will break my heart again.

  London has every right to hate me. I hate myself. I got scared because my life suddenly seemed so perfect, and there’s got to be a catch. I don’t know what it’s like to live life loving and being loved eternally in return.

  I am broken. I just didn’t realize how much.

  “How did you know where I lived? Where I worked?” I know it’s beating a dead horse, but I have to know. I’m not on social media because what would I post? Pictures of my pretentious house and clothes? Photos of a loveless union to reveal to the world that I’m a sad, detached woman who doesn’t deserve this adoring man’s affection?

  When he’s silent, his raspy breathing filling the void between us, I finally lift my eyes to meet his. He is furious at me, but behind that is…guilt. I know he’s not my stalker, he’s not the one who sent the letters…but he knows who did.

  “London?” I pose, the gears shifting once again.

  He doesn’t have time to answer me, however, because the front door opens and a titter of innocent laughter fills the otherwise stale atmosphere. He lowers his head and runs a hand through his snarled hair.

  What’s going on?

  “Daddy!” The affectionate term holds a whole different meaning when it is used in relation to the man I love.

  A little girl with pigtails and rosy red cheeks comes bouncing into the kitchen, eyes only for London. When he sees her, his anger fades and all that’s left is utter happiness. “Hey, baby.” He crouches low, and she runs into his embrace, throwing her tiny arms around his nape.

  I stand absolutely perplexed, not even understanding what I’m witnessing. But what I see next leaves me wheezing and seeking out something to lean on before I pass out.

  “Emily, I can’t find your book bag. Did you…oh my…god.”

  They say that before you die, your life flashes before your eyes, so I’m certain I’m seconds away from having a heart attack because every single memory, every single moment that I’ve shared with Belle comes roaring to the surface because she’s here…standing before me.

  I slouch against the counter, unable to process everything fast enough.

  She looks like the Belle I remembered, but now, there is a heavy burden weighing her down. Her eyes are plagued, no longer carefree and naïve. She guards a solemn secret, and when she meets my stare, she knows I’m not leaving until she tells me what it is.

  Her attention flicks to the fallen hoodie on the ground. Her face pales while I feel the blood rise to mine. Why does she look like she’s seen a ghost? “Honey, can you go to your room?”

  Emily, obviously Belle’s daughter, pulls from London’s embrace with a frown. She turns to look at her mother and then back at her…father. I cover my mouth. I’m going to be sick.

  “Listen to your mom. If you do, I promise to take you out for ice cream, okay?” London’s focus never wavers from his daughter as he rubs her slender arm. It’s only now she notices me standing in her kitchen, slumped against the kitchen counter, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing.

  She steps from London’s arms and spins around to face me. Her large, intelligent eyes remind me so much of Belle’s when she was her age. At a guess, I’d say Emily is around ten years old. “Hi, I’m Emily.”

  She continues staring at me, waiting for me to be the grown-up and reply. London rises slowly, glancing at Belle, who bites her lip, avoiding any contact with me. “Hi, Emily. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Holland.”

  Her small mouth parts, and she turns quickly to look at London. “Daddy, she has the same name as your tattoo.”

  London smiles, but it’s so bittersweet, I grieve with him. “Weird, right?” He messes up the top of her hair, but she cocks an inquisitive brow. The fact he doesn’t want his daughter knowing who I am cuts me deep, but what was I expecting?

  “Emily,” Belle presses, wringing her hands in front of her. “Say goodbye to Holland.” And just like that, I’ve suddenly found myself as the third wheel. I don’t belong here. Emily nods, but not before she kisses London on the cheek.

  She paces past me deliberately, examining me closely. The look she gives me…it is so familiar. “You forgot to put on pants.” A blush creeps up my neck as I tug down the edge of the sweater I stole from London’s dresser. She skips off upstairs, leaving us alone to deal with whatever this is.

  I have dreamed of this moment for years. Me dropping to both knees and begging Belle for forgiveness. I don’t care that she kissed Lincoln because what I did was so much worse. But now…this changes everything.

  The fact Belle keeps looking at London for support hurts me more than I thought possible. But why wouldn’t she? They are obviously a couple and have a beautiful child together. I’m once again the homewrecking whore who can’t seem to stop fucking up everyone’s life, especially my own.

  “Your daughter is beautiful,” I whisper, holding back ugly tears.

  London sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Holland…”

  “No, it’s fine. I’ll go. I understand.” Belle pounces forward, attempting to touch me, but I jump so far backward, I stub my toe on the kitchen table.

  “Please, don’t go,” London begs, but I can’t stay here a second longer.

  “I have to. You told me your life was complicated, but you failed to mention that complication was a daughter and wife!” I snap, lowering my voice, not wanting Emily to hear.

  Belle’s lower lip trembles, while London shakes his head. “She is not my wife.”

  “Girlfriend then.”

  “She isn’t that either,” he rebukes, but I don’t care about the technicalities.

  “Well, whatever she is, I’m clearly interrupting.” With whatever pride I have left intact, I blindly reach for a pen and a piece of paper from the counter. “Here is my address. Please mail me whatever I’ve left upstairs.”

  As I attempt to write out my details, the pen decides to run out of ink, only prolonging my stay, which is not an option. Desperately reaching for another, I press the tip to the pad, but when I see a blood red stroke stain the white paper, a blanket of terror swathes me.

  My mind can’t seem to play catch-up fast enough, and I dismiss my farfetched notion. But taking a closer look at the writing pad, the pen drops from my fingers, rolling along the polished floor.

  The answer is there—it is staring me in the face, but I need validation because I don’t trust myself anymore. After ten years, I never thought our reunion would be this. “…Belle, does this mean anything to you?” Bending, I offer her the sweater in my trembling hand. She gnaws her lip, just like she did whenever she was in trouble.

  She remains silent, but her silence fills in the blanks.

  “You’ve been following me?”

  A small sob escapes her, but she quickly muffles it behind her hand. “Yes, but it’s not—”

  I don’t allow her to finish however. “Why? Surely, you’d know that’d scare the shit out of me. Why wouldn’t you just say hello?”

  “I needed time…”

  “Time for what?” I question, throwing my arms out
wide. When she remains quiet, I ask, “Did you send letters?” She averts her gaze, her guilt slapping both my cheeks.

  I don’t know what to say. I know I hurt her, but those letters, they were absolutely sickening. “Belle, how could you? You knew what they would do. They were awful, downright appalling.”

  She sniffs, still unable to look at me.

  “I know I hurt you, but how could you send them to me? I’ve been terrified…” But my voice drifts off into the distance when she no longer looks shamefaced but rather confused.

  “To you?” she asks in a small voice. “I never sent them to you.”

  I scoff, unbelieving she’s just gone back on her word when she all but admitted it seconds ago. “So you didn’t send the letters then?” London shifts his weight, his fists clenching and unclenching. Something is suddenly horribly wrong.

  “I did send them…but they weren’t for you.”

  “Belle…” London shakes his head, angered and disappointed.

  “Weren’t for me?” I scrunch up my nose, sick of her games. “Then who were…?”

  Silence.

  The final piece of the puzzle falls into place, but what I’m perceiving, it makes no sense. London ambles toward me, placing a hand on my cheek. Five seconds ago, I was pushing him away, but now, he’s the only thing stopping me from tumbling to the floor.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you and Belle had a baby?” I question weakly, tears filling my eyes.

  He weighs up what to say, brushing away the wetness which coats my cheeks. “We don’t,” he finally replies, but I don’t understand.

  “So she isn’t your child?” My breathing begins to climb, and I slump forward, my feet giving way.

  London catches me, his face twisted in pain, not for himself however—for me. “Yes, she is mine.”

  “I-I don’t understand what that means.” My voice ricochets across the room, and I wonder if I spoke aloud or if this, all of this is in my head. “Please, someone tell me what’s going on.”

  When London looks at Belle, begging for this to end, I finally discern what he means—this was never his story to tell.

  With the walls closing in on me, I use whatever sense I have left to beseech my once best friend to finally, after ten years, tell me the truth. But when she does…I wish that this was all just a bad dream.

  “Emily is London’s child…he’s just not her…biological father.”

  “Then w-who is?”

  Time stands still.

  They say that regardless of your problems, the world will keep on spinning. The sun will rise in the east, and it’ll set in the west. The sky will forever be blue, and the stars will kiss the heavens for an eternity. But what Belle is about to tell me…it’ll set my world upside down and life won’t ever be as I know it.

  “Who, Belle?” I whisper, knowing what her answer will be.

  She swallows and blinks once. This is it, but nothing could ever prepare me for what she says next. “…Lincoln.”

  I defy you, stars, I defy you.

  My wonderful husband, Daniel. I love you. Thank you for believing in me even when I didn’t believe in myself.

  My ever-supporting parents. You guys are the best. I am who I am because of you. I love you.

  My agent, Kimberly Whalen from The Whalen Agency.

  My publicist—Nina Bocci. Thank you for organizing my life. Your support means the world to me. Thank you for always being there.

  My editors, Jenny Sims and Toni Rakestraw. What can I say other than I LOVE YOU! Thank you for everything.

  My proof-readers—Rosa Sharon from iScream Proofreading Services and Lisa Edward. You guys are the best!

  Sommer Stein, you NAILED this cover! Thank you for being so patient and making the process so fun.

  Louise Mercer, Gemma Cawley, Christina and Lauren, Tina Gephart, Lisa Edward, SC Stephens, Vi Keeland, Anna Todd, R.K. Lilley, Colleen Hoover, Sylvain Reynard, Kylie Scott, Mia Sheridan, Lexi Ryan, Helena Hunting, Tijan, Rachel Van Dyken, Geneva Lee, Shannon Shade, Kristin Dwyer (I only listen to you!) Heyne, Random House, Kinneret Zmora, Hugo & Cie, Planeta, Art Eternal, Carbaccio, Fischer, Harper Brazil, Bookouture, Egmont Bulgaria, USA TODAY/ Happy Ever, Aestas Book Blog, Talkbooks, TotallyBooked Blog, The RockStars Of Romance, Michelle Stoeger, Franziska Kurra, Paula Nascimento, Hugues De Saint Vincent, Benita Rolland, Sylvie Gand, Melusine Huguet, Meire Dias, Nikki McCombe, Romance Writers of Australia, Paris, New York—Thanks for the support and laughs.

  To the endless blogs that have supported me since day one—You guys rock my world.

  A special shout-out to: Laura Foster Franks, Donna Cooksley Sanderson, Ria Alexander, Kell Donaldson, Anne Christine, Melissa Teo, Nadine Colling, Mindy Guerreiros, Gel Ytayz, Melissa Gill, Ryn Hughes, Beverly Preston, Vanessa Silva Martins, Ellie McLove.

  My reader group; My Sinners—sending you all a big kiss.

  My beautiful family —Mum, Papa, my sister—Fran, Matt, Samantha, Amelia, Gayle, Peter, Luke, Leah, Shirley, Michael, Rob, Elisa, Evan, Alex, Francesca, and my aunties, uncles, and cousins—I am the luckiest person alive to know each and every one of you. You brighten up my world in ways I honestly cannot express. Samantha and Amelia— I love you both so very much. To my family in Holland and abroad. Sending you guys much love and kisses. Zia Rosetta and Zia Giuseppina—you are in our hearts. Always.

  My fur babies— mamma loves you so much! Buckwheat, you are my best buddy. Dacca, I will always protect you from the big bad Bellie. Mitch, refer to Dacca’s comment. Jag, you’re a wombat in disguise. Bellie, you’re a devil in disguise. And Ninja, thanks for watching over me.

  To anyone I have missed, I’m sorry! It wasn’t intentional!

  Last but certainly not least, I want to thank YOU! Thank you for welcoming me into your hearts and homes. My readers are the BEST readers in this entire universe! Love you all!

  Monica James spent her youth devouring the works of Anne Rice, William Shakespeare, and Emily Dickinson.

  When she is not writing, Monica is busy running her own business, but she always finds a balance between the two. She enjoys writing honest, heartfelt, and turbulent stories, hoping to leave an imprint on her readers. She draws her inspiration from life.

  She is a bestselling author in the U.S.A., Australia, Canada, France, Germany, Israel, and The U.K.

  Monica James resides in Melbourne, Australia, with her wonderful family, and menagerie of animals. She is slightly obsessed with cats, chucks, and lip gloss, and secretly wishes she was a ninja on the weekends.

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  Website:monicajamesbooks.blogspot.com