Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3)

by Jessica Peterson

  “You will.” Fred puts a hand on my shoulder and cracks a grin. “Just no more pick up lines, all right? They’re awkward for everyone.”

  My grin catches as a bolt of pain moves through my leg. I draw up, clenching my teeth.

  “You all right, Cabbage?”

  “No,” I grind out. “Let’s go.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. Go.”

  We round a bend and arrive at the gate. My heart stops beating altogether when I see that the gate is empty.

  Completely, entirely empty.

  “What the hell?” Fred says. “You sure this is the right gate?”

  “I’m sure. I just checked the monitor as we passed.” I look around, hoping to find someone to ask. “Shit. Shit shit shit.”

  I nab the first flight attendant I can find. She tells me there’s been a last minute gate change, and that the plane heading to Philly is now at a different gate.

  A gate that’s all the way across the terminal.

  I hang my head. My knee is on fire. I don’t know if I can make it.

  “Climb on.” Fred turns his back to me.

  I stare at him. “What?”

  “Climb on my back. You’ll never get there in time with that knee. I’ll carry you.”

  I grit my teeth again. Then I climb onto his back. “I suppose we’re doing this, then. Let’s go!”

  We start to hustle back through the terminal; I’m bobbing on Fred’s back. People are really staring now. Just a little further. I can make it a little further…

  We finally make it to Laura’s gate. People are lined up; they’re boarding. My stomach flips. If she’s already on the plane, I’m screwed. I leap off of Fred’s back, landing on my good leg with a wince, and immediately hobble into the fray.

  I draw up in front of her as she’s bending down to get her bag.

  Her hazel eyes, red from crying, go wide when she straightens and sees me.

  “Rhys? What the hell? How did you—”

  “Tickets,” I gasp. “I bought a ticket.”

  Laura searches my face for a beat, like she’s not quite sure what to make of me. Like she’s not sure what to make of all this.

  “You’re too much,” she says at last.

  “I know. Can’t be helped, I’m afraid.”

  “You didn’t have to do”—she looks me up and down—“whatever this is. I’m getting on that plane. I’m going home.”

  I duck my head so that I’m looking into her eyes. “Just hear me out, all right?”

  She folds her arms across her chest. She looks away. “You’re wasting your breath.”

  “You’re going home,” I say. “But I can’t. I won’t. Not unless you’re there. Because you are home. Laura, you’re home to me.”

  I take a step forward. She takes a step back. I glance over my shoulder at Fred, who’s pretending not to listen a few feet away. He nods, encouraging me, urging me to keep trying.

  “I’m home to you?” Laura says, her voice wavering. “But you made me feel like I wasn’t…I don’t know, good enough, or glamorous enough, to belong in your life. You said as much yourself. And the model, Monica—”

  “I wanted to push you away. I was just using Monica to get back at you. That was fucked up, Laura. I’m sorry. Nothing—I mean nothing—happened between us. She’s a nice enough girl, but she’s not you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Laura.”

  “That hurt,” she says. “A lot.”

  “I know. And I don’t expect you to believe me. But I do intend to grovel as long and as hard as I must to prove you’re the girl. The only one. You’ll always come first.”

  Laura shakes her head. “I’ll never come first. We both know that. I’ll always come after your career, and your sponsors. You’re terrified everyone will think you’ll turn into your dad...”

  “Not true,” I say. “Well, that was true, not too long ago. But Laura—Laura, you made me see things differently. You turned a light on inside my head and made me see how bloody miserable I’d been, putting all that stuff first.”

  The gate attendant comes over the loudspeaker, calling for group 2 to board. Even though Laura makes no move to go, I reach out and gently curl my fingers around her forearm.

  She doesn’t pull away.

  “I understand you don’t want to believe me,” I continue. “But I’m here, aren’t I? I’m making a fool of myself for you. I’ll always make a fool of myself for you because you’ve shown me what I truly want.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Doing the stuff on your bucket list with you—learning to live in the moment with you—it’s taught me that I want to be free.”

  “You want to be free,” she says with a scoff. “Really.”

  “Free from what everyone else needs. From what they think. I’m finally free to be myself because of you. You did that, love. We were both so caught up in appearances, in making everyone else happy. Then you took your stand, and pursued your bucket list in earnest, and you were intent to prove there was more to life than that. And you did. You proved it to yourself, and you proved it to me.”

  ***

  Laura

  I close my eyes. Rhys is killing me, saying these things. He’s saying what I’ve wanted to believe about myself all along—that I’m more than just a pretty face. That I’ve got more to offer than that.

  That life is about so much more than that.

  His hand on my arm is warm.

  “I’m proud of you,” Rhys says. “Whether or not you get on that plane right now, I want you to know that. I’m proud of you, and I’m so fucking in love with who you are and what your soul is made of I’m not sure I’ll ever get over you.”

  “Get over me?” I say, my voice cracking. “Rhys, I don’t know if I’ll ever get over you.”

  He looks at me, really looks, a look that is so heated and so pleading it rearranges my insides. “Then don’t. Stay with me. I told mum that I won’t be home for Christmas—I’m hoping I might invite myself to Philadelphia? I’ve got a plane waiting, just for us. I thought we might do the moped tour first, of course…”

  I keep looking at him. I don’t even know what to say. I must be dreaming. This is a freaking dream come true. Rhys is making all my dreams come true.

  And for the first time, I don’t want to think about whether or not if I deserve the happiness bubbling up inside me. I don’t want to wonder if I worked hard enough for it or if it’s a fluke.

  I just want to enjoy it. Live it. Share it with Rhys.

  He clears his throat. “As I see my little speech didn’t win you over, perhaps a pick up-line might do the trick? I know how much you love those.”

  I bite my lip. “Whatcha got?”

  “That outfit you’re wearing—was it on sale?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because it should be one hundred percent off.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. I laugh, a giggly, relieved thing, and Rhys does, too.

  “Wow,” I say. “Wow, that was your worst one yet.”

  He wiggles his brows. “Bloody awful, isn’t it?”

  “Cabbage, really, that was terrible. I’m embarrassed for you,” Fred says, peeking over Rhys’s shoulder.

  I give him a little wave. “Hi, Fred.”

  “Hello, Laura. Lovely speech, though, don’t you agree?”

  “Very lovely.” I turn my gaze back to Rhys. “So lovely I’m considering kissing the shit out of him right now.”

  Rhys’s eyes light up. His grip on me tightens, just a bit. “Really?”

  I take a deep breath and let it out. My heart still feels sore, but it’s a different kind of sore now. It’s the good kind. The kind that lets me know it’s alive. It may not be altogether well, but it’s still beating.

  It’s beating for Rhys.

  “Really,” I say. “I freaking love you.”

  And then I drop my bag and I curl my arms around Rhys’s neck and I maul him with the most delicious make-up kiss ever. I pou
r everything into this kiss, my relief and my happiness and my disbelief that this is really happening, that I am becoming the girl I’ve always wanted to be, the guy by my side the kind of man I’ve always wanted to be with. We found each other, and in so doing we found ourselves. Or maybe it’s the other way around, I can’t tell. It’s such a mess, our history. Such a lovely mess.

  I pull back at the sound of applause. Blushing, I grin shyly at the people waiting in line to board who are cheering us on; a few guys hold up their phones, and an older man puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles.

  I glance at Rhys. For half a heartbeat, I wonder if he’ll turn away, run; the old Rhys would’ve hated being caught making a fool of himself.

  Instead, he takes my face in his hands and presses his lips to mine. The kiss is slow, deep, showy; he’s putting on a show for our little audience, marking me, claiming me, telling the world that he is mine and I am his.

  Behind us, Fred politely clears his throat.

  “So I, um, hate to interrupt,” he says. “But I’m worried your, uh, moped will get towed soon if we don’t get moving.”

  I look at Rhys. “So you really did get the moped.”

  “Of course. Couldn’t let you finish your semester without doing the tour. I promised you we’d do it.” He grabs my hand. “Shall we?”

  Before I know what’s happening, Rhys is climbing onto Fred’s back, and then the three—well, technically two I guess—the two of us are walking.

  We pass the security lady. Her face breaks out into a huge smile as we pass.

  Inside my chest, fireworks explode.

  I draw up short when we walk out the main entrance. There, pulled up to the curb and surrounded by a small mob of angry-looking security officers, is a moped painted the softest, girliest shade of pink. Beside it, Olivier leans against a gleaming black Bentley, flipping his keys nonchalantly like he isn’t about to be arrested by airport cops for egregious illegal parking.

  He smiles when he sees us. “Ah, ze lovers! I am very ’appy to see you together once more! Zis, it is a Christmas miracle.”

  “Well,” Fred grunts, setting Rhys on his feet, “I certainly got my workout in today.”

  “Ah, but you ’ave more workouts to do zis day, non?, wiz your lady friend Rachel?” Olivier says with a wink.

  “Wait, wait a second.” I blink. “Fred, are you and Rachel—”

  Fred’s face turns bright red. “It’s—I—she—I’m helping her find, uh, an internship,” he stammers.

  “An internship,” Rhys says with a smile. “So that’s what the kids are calling it these days. Interesting.”

  He hobbles over to the moped and holds out a pink helmet. “Ready, love?”

  “Yes,” I say, letting Olivier take my bag before I duck into the helmet.

  I climb onto the moped behind Rhys. He guides my arms around his waist.

  “Hold on tight,” he says.

  I lean my cheek against his broad back, inhale his scent. “Like I’d ever let you go, fancy pants,” I say.

  Rhys guns the moped. Our bodies surge forward; for a second the bike leans precipitously to the side. My heart jumps to my throat. Oh dear, maybe this wasn’t the best idea…

  Just when I’m sure we’re about to plummet to our deaths, Rhys turns and rights the moped. To my gigantic relief, we take off, a bit wobbly at first. But once we’re on the highway, we hit our stride. People honk, laughing, as they pass the two of us chugging along in the slow lane.

  I laugh, too. I squeeze Rhys, pulling him close. If I could somehow curl his body into mine, that wouldn’t be close enough. He is my happily every after, which is a wonderful thing. But even better than that, he’s my I’m-so-happy-right-now-I-could-burst. Every moment I have with him gets better and better. I’m so freaking happy to be with him, to laugh with him, to experience anything and everything with him. Living in the moment with Rhys has been the biggest joyride ever. Especially when you’re experiencing that joyride a powder pink moped on a beautiful morning in Madrid.

  If that’s not happiness, I don’t know what is.

  Epilogue

  Rhys

  January – One Month Later

  Madrid, Spain

  I palm the door closed behind Laura, trapping her against it. I hover my mouth an inch above hers. She smells sweet, like red wine and the cinnamon sugar that coated the churros we ate, and in the space of a single heartbeat I am hard as a fucking rock and wild with need. You’d think after three weeks of non-stop sex, I’d need a break already. But I can’t get enough of her.

  I can’t believe she’s with me. Lucky bastard indeed. We spent this afternoon like we spend every afternoon we both have free—laughing, eating, exploring. Madrid is a whole new city when I see it with Laura. Today we took guitar lessons, and then we went to see Laura’s favorite Goya paintings at the Prado Museum. It’s stuff I never would’ve done before—stuff I would’ve never thought was worth my time—but I must admit I adored every minute of it.

  “Tell me, love,” I say, running my nose up the length of her neck. “Are you glad you came back to Spain?”

  Laura’s breath catches. “I mean. I haven’t been able to really walk right since I got back. But besides that…”

  I look up to see her grinning at me. My heart swells. “I’d say I’m sorry. But I’m not. I love you.”

  “I love you,” she says.

  I press a kiss into the hollow just beneath her ear. “And how might I love you this afternoon? On the kitchen counter, perhaps? The sofa? Oooh, what about the tub?”

  “Shower,” she pants. “I’d like to wash off after running around all afternoon.”

  My lips twitch. “Sounds lovely.”

  I follow her into my bedroom, watching as she shrugs out of her jacket, pulls her sweater over her head, unbuttons her jeans. She leaves a trail of clothes in her wake. I add to the pile, tugging at my clothes with impatient fingers.

  Laura flicks the lights on in the bathroom and throws me a heated look over her shoulder.

  “Hurry up,” she teases. “I want you. Now.”

  Tripping out of my briefs, I dart into the bathroom and open the shower door. I turn on the water. The tip of my dick grazes the knob and I grit my teeth. If I’m not careful I’ll blow my load before Laura comes.

  And Laura’s got to come first.

  “Ready, love?” I ask, ducking out of the shower.

  She grins. “Are you ready to work your hot footballer magic?”

  I hold out my hand. “I am indeed.”

  Laura takes my hand. The steam from the shower starts to fill the bathroom, surrounding us.

  She squares her shoulders, moving into my caress as I pull her against me into the shower. I always thought I was a tits (and tambourine, obviously) guy, but I’ve got to say my favorite part of Laura is her shoulders. I love the constellation of freckles that dot her skin here. I love how proud and strong they are, her shoulders, the architecture of her bones and her bravery absolutely beautiful.

  My dick leaps at the sight of her naked tits.

  Okay. Maybe I’m a shoulders and tits and tambourine guy.

  I run my finger down the furrow of her spine. I cup one of her breasts with my free hand, plucking her nipple between my thumb and forefinger.

  The steam gathers on her skin, covering it in a fine, almost pearlescent sheen.

  “Rhys.” Her arm darts out. She clutches my shoulder, using it to support her weight. Her eyes flutter shut. “Oh, Rhys.”

  And then I’m taking her face in my hands and bringing my mouth down on hers and backing her underneath the showerhead, my dick grazing her belly as I press my body to hers.

  The water stings; it’s a little too hot, but it feels right. It feels like it should hurt, like it should be almost too intense to handle.

  “This okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says. She reaches down between us and wraps her fingers around my throbbing cock. “You okay?”

  “Please.�
� My voice is strained. “Please don’t do that, love, or I’m going to come in about two seconds. I want you to come first.”

  “Oh—okay,” she says, but before she removes her fingers the little minx swirls the pad of her thumb over the head of my cock.

  My knees almost buckle.

  “Fuck.” I catch her hand. “You’re making it really, really difficult to be a gentleman tonight.”

  Before she can torture me any further, I reach behind her for the soap and work up a lather.

  I set the soap down, lather running down my arms, and step back to face Laura. I watch her face as I work my hands in lazy circles across her body, paying particular attention to her breasts and nipples. Her mouth falls open; she closes her eyes and rests her forehead on my chest. Rivulets of water soak her hair and run down my torso. I’m hot and I’m bothered and I have her, thank God, I have her.

  My heart works double. She trusts me, she’s opening up to me, and that’s the biggest fucking turn on ever. I want to worship this girl.

  I am going to worship her.

  She arches into my touch. Steam swirls around us, catching the light, diffracting it into a soft glow. My hands move lower, lower.

  Lower.

  I slip a hand between her thighs. Her eyes fly open as the first knuckle of my thumb meets with her clit. She digs her teeth into my pec as I drag my hand back and forth. We’re both slippery, wet as fuck, and I have to close my eyes to keep from coming on the spot. It’s so hot in here it’s hard to breathe.

  “That,” she moans, “feels so good.”

  I swallow, hard.

  I hook a finger inside her, pressing the heel of my palm to that spot she likes so much. With that hand I guide her to the wall, teasing her mouth with mine as we move. She lets out a hiss when her back meets with the tile.

  “Rhys,” she says, lips tangling with mine as she speaks. “Oh, Rhys, yes.”

  I fall to one knee, then the other, trailing my mouth down the soft slope of Laura’s belly. With my free hand I grasp her thigh, as slippery and hot as her cunt, my fingers gliding up to her hip. I guide her leg over my shoulder, spreading her wide just as my lips meet with her pubic hair. The citrus scent of my soap, mingled with the delicious scent of her arousal, fills my head.