Lose Me: (New Adult Billionaire Romance) (Broken Idols)

by M. C. Frank

  “More than you know,” I replied in the same tone. “Speaking of boyfriends, how come you don’t have one?”

  I blushed as soon as I realized what I’d said, but he didn’t laugh at me. I’ve been speaking English with my dad since I was a kid, but it’s not my mother tongue, after all. Wes had never once corrected me, though, even when I knew I made mistakes or slip-ups.

  “Girlfriend, you mean?” he asked. “I don’t. . . I don’t do girlfriends. Relationships in general. I did once or maybe twice, but I don’t go there anymore. Is that bad?” he added with a smile.

  “On the contrary,” I said. “It’s good.”

  “That’s what I think too.”

  I turned slowly on my back so as not to invoke any unpleasant dizziness, and he moved to give me space. I had the impression what we were talking about wasn’t as simple as boyfriends and relationships, that there was an underlying tension to his words, but my head was too fuzzy to untangle the thread.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  I just shrugged. I hated the fact that I was sick, and that he was here, seeing it.

  We stayed silent for a few minutes, lying there, next to each other. His body’s warmth was spreading to my skin, the golden hairs of his arm brushing mine.

  Just as I was beginning to relax (and maybe nod off a bit), he sat up suddenly, jostling me, and I opened my eyes to see him leaning over me with a freaked expression on his face, as though a horrifying thought had just occurred to him.

  “Listen, promise me you’ll never read anything about me,” he said. “Promise me you’ll never watch an interview, never look at a blog or an article or a. . . a gossip column.”

  There was such vehemence in his voice; he said the word ‘gossip’ as though it was a swear word. His green eyes were burning into mine with an intensity I’d never seen before.

  “O. . . kay,” I said slowly. “It’s a bit too late actually, ‘cause I have read Young People magazine already, and I’ve watched that interview on TV, where you talked about THE WATER WARS, not to mention. . . ” I started counting on my fingers.

  “No.” He grabbed my arm. “No. Forget it. All of it. Please, please.”

  He was serious. I’d been joking, but there was nothing amused about his expression.

  “All right,” I said, in my best ‘calm down, dude’ voice. “All right, I will.”

  He nodded, thanking me silently.

  “Are you afraid I might. . . I might say things, spread—?” I started asking, but he stopped me with an impatient gesture.

  “It’s the exact opposite,” he said. “I can’t, I. . . ” he swallowed. “I can’t be scared every single day that you might read or see something that will make you think differently about me.”

  “That won’t happen so easily,” I tried to interrupt him, but he didn’t even hear me.

  “What Elle did the other day, when she talked about those girls. . . she couldn’t be able to cause so much damage if I wasn’t. . . who I am, you know? Even as we speak, who knows what she or anybody else for that matter will be saying to the press, feeding them stories that are made-up, or even partially true, and then, ugh. . . ” he was out of breath.

  “Hey. Hey hey hey.” I raised myself to my knees and took his chin in my hand. I turned him to look at me, his eyes wild and scared. “Wes.”

  He gasped aloud, his breath coming uneven. “They control my life,” he whispered, his eyes wide. “I can’t—I go crazy even thinking of it, I just want to feel numb. I just want to forget this prison I’m in.”

  “Look at me,” I said and he did.

  I still had my hand on his jaw and before I could drop it, he placed his fingers on top of mine, suspending me there.

  “No one controls your life but you. This is just a way to make a living, it’s your job, that’s all.” I was speaking slowly and calmly and he was drinking my words in, his hands squeezing mine. “Okay? No one can control or even affect you without your permission. You are who you are, Wes Spencer, and you don’t need anyone’s permission for that. You’re that kid who survived being the water pirate since you were practically a baby, and you went through rehab and grew up alone and built a career for yourself all on your own. And now you’re going to college, and choosing the films you’ll work in, not to mention rescuing stupid stunt girls from drowning next to your yacht, because that’s who you are. And there’s no way in hell that could change. Unless you let it.”

  “Ari. . . ” he sounded lost. He smoothed down my hair, which was probably sticking up every which way. “What if I let it?”

  “You won’t,” I told him. “You won’t.”

  He smiled but I could tell he didn’t believe me. And, truth be told, why should he? Sure, he didn’t know it yet, but I was the one who had let everything else except myself take control of my life, and not him.

  “How did you get so wise?” he said and his hand slowly traveled down my arm to my waist as we kneeled there on my bed, face to face, but the next second my dad was yelling from downstairs that he was home and asking if I was feeling any better, and he got up faster than lighting and pretended to be interested in the view of my window, on the other side of the room.

  Then that little incident of me being sick in the bathroom and then having to lie through my teeth to him and my dad interrupted our conversation for good.

  Oh, and I didn’t call him.

  You knew I wouldn’t, didn’t you, diary? I couldn’t.

  Not after remembering that. How he opened his soul for me to look into, and all I did was lie to him. And then lied again.

  And then almost died.

  How do I start? What do I say? ‘Sorry for lying’? ‘Sorry for letting you spend an entire day with me when I was sick, but not trusting you enough to tell you what was really the matter’? There’s so much to apologize for. . . I haven’t even apologized to myself for everything I did to myself—the danger I put myself in, the hours, the days of pain. I freaking had to remind myself not to die every day, for crying out loud.

  That sounded really cheesy, didn’t it?

  Well, welcome to the new me. Cheesy. And chicken. Most of all chicken.

  Haven’t even turned my phone on.

  Day Seven

  Ollie went back home.

  I’ll be released tomorrow. I’m up to a hundred crunches and fifty pushups.

  Sweet.

  Still no phone, which means no Wes. Whenever I think of him, I just. . . can’t.

  Day Ten

  Still here.

  Two days ago I woke up in the middle of a night with a sky-high fever—I don’t remember it, dad told me afterwards—talking in unintelligible gibberish, among which could be discerned that I wanted someone to make the pain stop and let me die.

  I’m so proud of myself.

  Turns out the incision they had to dig inside the back of my head suffered a mild infection (doctor’s lingo, not mine). I suppose I’m lucky it was ‘mild’. I hate to think in what state dad would have found me in if the infection was huge. Probably would be out of my mind by now.

  Anyway, not to be ungrateful or anything, but I spent the next three days including today, dozing on and off, antibiotics trickling into my veins, my fever flying off the charts.

  I’m better now, but this means no leaving, no crunches, no Greece for at least ten more days.

  What can you do?

  Right now is the first time since day six that I’m feeling somehow normal. My fever isn’t completely gone and my head is throbbing, but I don’t feel like screaming in pain anymore, so that’s a plus.

  Ok, so now you know that I’m alive, dear diary, I think we can both go to sleep.

  Day Eleven

  Jamie came into my room today to take my temperature and check my medication. Then he flops onto the bed next to me, folding his white-scrubs-clad legs beneath him, and told me in a serious tone that he wanted to talk to me.

  “I write in my journal every day,” I told him, “what
else do you want from me?”

  “I want you to see a therapist,” he replied coolly.

  I’m not proud of what I did next, but I kicked him off the bed. Not that he fell, of course. He just slid to the edge and then immediately sat back again, making himself at home against half of my pillow.

  Then he squeezed my almost nonexistent bicep and tsk-tsked.

  “Haven’t you any gyms down in Cyprus?” he asked me.

  “It’s Greece, as you know very well,” I told him, annoyed. “And I’m an athlete, which you also know. What are you—are you leading a second secret life as a boxer? Your muscles feel hard like stone.”

  “Don’t let the hair fool you, baby,” he said. “I run three marathons every year.”

  “Cool,” I said, impressed.

  I could see it now. He’s built slight and wiry—with enough muscle, this is the perfect sport for him. And his movements are always synchronized and graceful, plus he doesn’t ever look tired despite being on his feet all day.

  “I couldn’t even manage a hundred pushups the other day,” I mused.

  “Which brings us to what I was saying. I think you should see someone,” he turned serious again.

  “Like my coach?” I asked innocently.

  “Like a therapist,” he repeated, as though he was talking to a kid. “Like someone who could help you with all this feeling-sorry-for-myself, being-in-denial, can’t-come-to terms-with-the-new-reality issues you’ve got running all over the place.” He made an eloquent gesture with his hands, but I was too seething angry by then to find it cute.

  “What did you say?” I sat up. “I. Do not. Have. Issues.”

  He sighed. “Ari, honey. Like hell you don’t. You’ve been crying every day since you woke up.”

  “Well, isn’t that to be expected for someone who has been through so much trauma. . . ?” I started saying, but my voice sounded unsure even to me.

  He nodded. “It is,” he said. “But tell me this. When was the last time you laughed?”

  I considered telling him he’s an idiot, but I didn’t.

  “When did you celebrate your recovery, the excellent, miraculous news that there is nothing wrong with you? You were almost dead one minute and the next you’re completely healthy. Do you know how many people are given this chance? About. . . zero point one in a million. And you’re one of them. Have you even talked to your grandpa? He’s been calling your dad every three hours. Your grandma too, that other girl who is a scientist, and your boyfriend—”

  “Would you just.” I had to stop to take a deep breath. “Would you stop bombarding me with all of these questions, it’s none of your business, okay? Where do you come off yelling at me? You don’t even know me!”

  Somewhere in the middle of his italics-riddled speech, I’d sprung from the bed, and was now pacing around it, furious.

  He got up calmly and came up to me. We are almost the same height, so his eyes were on the same level as mine, looking at me directly in a way that made me really uncomfortable. But for some reason I couldn’t look away.

  He gently took my hands in his.

  “I know what’s happened to you,” he told me. “I’ve seen it so many times. You didn’t want to face the fact that you might be dying before, but now it’s finally real. You were dying. You almost did. And you’re so scared of that whole idea you’ll do anything to push it away from your mind.”

  He cupped my cheek with his hand and I felt the coolness of the ring he’s wearing on his middle finger against my bare skin.

  “You’ll end up running away from everyone and everything that was in your life before, and try to erase the fear along with the people who love you and stood by you at the worst time of your life. The people who are worth keeping in your life. But they will keep reminding you of what almost happened, just by being there. If you don’t deal with it, you won’t be able to get close to them ever again. You’ll push them out of your life to survive.”

  I wasn’t crying by the end.

  I was mad.

  I swatted his hand away and turned my back on him.

  “Get out,” I said in a low voice.

  He chuckled.

  “You hate me, don’t you?” he said. “You would really kill me if you could right now. Well, my job is to keep you alive, and that’s not what you are right now, not by any consideration. Think about what I said, will you, Goldie?”

  I spun around so quickly I got dizzy and wobbled on my feet. He didn’t make a move to steady me, just stood there looking at me like he felt sorry for me, a sad smile on his face.

  “WHAT did you call me?” I asked as soon as the room stopped spinning.

  “I don’t know, you tell me,” he smirked. “At the very least it will take your mind off of planning my murder.”

  So I thought about it and I finally figured it out.

  Goldie.

  As in gold.

  As in shiny.

  As in my bald head is shiny under the fluorescent hospital lights.

  You’re dead, Jamie.

  Day Thirteen

  Not much happened yesterday. I slept. I ate. I told dad to go back to Greece about a trillion times and he said, and I quote, ‘no way, dude,’ for about a billion point nine of them. The rest of the time he was dozing next to me—he’s spent a few sleepless nights worrying about my fever, but even that’s almost gone now, so it’s all good.

  Plus I spoke to pappous and yiayia. In your face, Jamie.

  Pappous sounded calm enough, but his voice was shaky so I know he was crying, but from happiness (I hope). Grandma whooped. She actually whooped at me.

  Then she asked me if she could send me some Greek homemade pie via courier mail. I said no, but I’d be eating it soon enough in person. A shudder ran through me at the thought of being back. More fear than excitement. More trauma than healing.

  Which brought Jamie’s words from the other day back in a rush.

  I told her I’d be seeing her soon, hopefully, and she told me to take my time and get my strength back.

  A couple of hours later I was outside, trying to walk around the grounds with a little bit of dignity and stamina, but sweating and panting like a dog instead, when dad met me, coming out of the side entrance in a brisk pace. In his hand he was holding his phone carefully, which meant there was probably somebody on the line.

  “I think,” he said as he reached me, “this is for you.”

  It was Katia. I mean, not just her voice. It was Katia, in all her crazy-hair glory, her lips huge as she was leaning down towards the screen, her delicate eyebrows frowning in disapproval.

  “Put it down!” she was yelling at my dad. “I’m getting vertigo.”

  I sprawled myself on the nearest bench, fighting to catch my breath.

  “Take it, Goldie,” dad said, extending his hand.

  “Good,” I told him, “I’m glad this nickname is catching on.”

  “Revenge time,” Katia said, as soon as I was holding her steady in front of my face.

  “What?” I gasped, still panting.

  “All these years of listening to you make fun of my hair, its frizziness, its curliness, its. . . ”

  “I did NOT make fun of your hair. Ever,” I protested, but she was going on, not even listening.

  “Now,” she said. “Let’s see it. Take off your hat.”

  I spent the rest of the day with her. We weren’t necessarily talking all the time, just hanging. “I want to come see you,” she said sullenly just before she hung up, because grandma here had to go to sleep.

  “I’m fine,” I told her. “There’s nothing to see here. I’ll see you at Christmas, when you’ll already be looking down your nose at us mere mortals who aren’t studying to be the next Einsteins and I’ll have an inch of hair.”

  But today something different popped up. And I mean that literally.

  I woke up to Katia’s voice screaming at me from Jamie’s laptop. He knocked on my door and came in to place her—I mean his laptop,
with her face squinting from the screen—there, next to my bed, and rushed out without a word.

  “What?” I asked groggily.

  “You. Have. To. See. This.”

  It took me a minute to realize Katia was talking from the laptop’s screen. There was a monitor next to her, and she pointed her phone to it so I could see.

  She was on YouTube.

  “Isn’t this your brother?” she said.

  “What?” I leaned down closer, trying to shake the sleep from my eyes.

  She had clicked on a seven-minute video titled ‘How to finish a Boat’.

  The channel’s underneath read GreyRibbon and it had a bit over eight hundred subscribers. The first comments were:

  ‘Actual friendship goals.’

  ‘funniest thing on the internet, lmao’

  ‘I started laughing, but then HE came on

  and now I’m swooooooooning.’

  ‘This video is life.’

  And so on and so on. Okay, moving on.

  I pressed play, curious to see what Katia was talking about. And she was right, it was Ollie. The first frame was of him. Only he wasn’t alone.

  Wes was there too, his golden head filling the screen in a close-up shot, as he positioned the camera to film himself and Ollie putting the finishing touches to a small yacht, which was docked in harbor. Ollie kept calling him ‘Stan’.

  The water looked familiarly light and green. I recognized the place at once. Paxi. Tears stung at my eyes but still I watched with fascination. Before long, I was laughing.

  They weren’t speaking much, except for grunts and small phrases like ‘come on’ and ‘are you a complete knobhead? You have to do it this way’ and stuff like that. They were both wearing plaid shirts and builder jeans with thick sturdy boots, their hair plastered on their sweaty brows, as though they’d been hard at work all day.

  They should have looked seriously uncool, but it somehow worked for their advantage. They both looked so hot (well, I’m basically talking about the person who isn’t my brother here, but you get the point.)