Not the most promising start to the season, but I'm not complaining.
The dreary scene matches my mood loads better than a bright, happy day.
Waiting out the weather may take all afternoon. With a mumbled 'screw it', I run into the storm sans umbrella or rain jacket or rubber boots. Checking the daily forecast is something I sorta suck at.
The skies cry their salty tears, soaking me to the bone in a matter of seconds.
Like Mother Nature, concealing my emotions has never been one of my strong suits. One look at my malleable expression and you'll know exactly what's on my mind. Attempting to disguise my feelings is completely pointless.
And the way I've been feeling lately?
More overcast than the murky clouds up above.
I'm still mad.
Hurt and betrayed and confused.
But most of all, I'm just plain old sad.
I miss Weston. I miss him more than I even thought possible.
The twelve days he's been out of the country, I've done all I could to distract myself. I buried myself in textbooks and took on so many extra volunteer shifts at St. Anne's the front desk lady said they would have to pay me a salary if I kept showing up and could I please not do that?
For the most part, I was thoroughly distracted, but our Bio Lab Practical threw a wrench in my resolve.
Weston's absence was impossible to ignore. The vacant stool, no hand splayed across my thigh under the table, Dr. Benton joking that I looked like a miserable, lost puppy without my partner...
Told you my poker face is pathetic.
Consumed by my thoughts, I don't notice a slick patch of mud on the sidewalk before me. My non-rain-boot footwear has zero traction, and I let out a loud yelp as I crash to the wet grass below.
"Ughhhh!"
My groan is drowned out by the deafening rain. I try to brush the sticky blades of grass and dirt from my knees and shins. My hands are scraped from the fall, sore and bleeding. And then, just for some icing on the cake, a car zooms past, sending a freaking tidal wave of water over my head and down my open mouth. I choke on the rancid water, eyes stinging and throat burning as I flip the asshole the finger and get to my feet.
My palms hurt, my pride hurts, and my chest hurts.
There's a meteor-sized hole where my heart used to be, a void that's usually filled by a charming brunette with a dirty mouth and the cutest dimples on this planet.
Lightning cracks up above, and I crack right along with it.
By the time I burst into my apartment, I'm a drenched, muddy, weeping mess of a girl.
Rayne and Vaughn are on the couch, snuggled up watching baseball, happy and in love and together.
The sight just makes me sob harder.
The moment my roommate sees my crumpled expression, she shoots off the sofa. With two hands, she shoves her boyfriend out the door, citing 'Emergency Girl Time' as a baffled Vaughn is sent away.
Rayne jumps into immediate action, taking my wet bag and steering me towards my room with a few strict instructions.
"Take a hot bath, cry it out, and change into something comfy. I'm gonna find some Neosporin and band-aids for your hands. When you're through, bring out a comb and some argan oil and we'll get your mind off of it, okay? Go!"
With a sniffle and a nod, I obey her orders.
When I emerge from the therapeutic bubble bath thirty minutes later, I enter the living room and smile. Rayne lit every candle she could find, prepared two steaming mugs of hot cocoa, and there's a platter of slightly-burned, pre-made chocolate chip cookies on the coffee table.
Best. Friend. Ever.
After we bandage my battered hands, she sits behind me, brushing out my hair in a motherly way that puts me at ease.
We watch TV for the next few hours, talking and laughing about light-hearted subjects. Vaughn stops by to drop off the cure to all wounds of the heart—chocolate ice cream—and Rayne and I go to town on that thing.
I seriously feel so much better.
But when a cheesy Hallmark movie comes on, the fictional couple split by state lines due to a job relocation, I can't stop myself from relating the situation to my own.
"Do they really think it can work?"
"Huh?"
"Them." I point at the screen. "Long distance. Is it even feasible? I mean, they're going down completely different paths. Brandon's new career is going to take up all of his spare time. He'll be in the big city, meeting tons of people and living a highfaluting life while Jill's back running her family farm. Daily phone calls will turn to weekly texts, they'll slowly start to grow apart, and before you know it—Bam! Relationship over."
My ramblings aren't exactly subtle and Rayne quickly reads me like a book.
"Okay...I'm going to take a stab in the dark here and assume this isn't really about CEO Brandon and Farmer Jill." She pauses the movie and shifts her gaze my direction. "Is that what you're worried about? That you and Weston won't be able to overcome the distance?"
I collapse backwards on the cushions with a soft thud and nod.
Concern flickers in her caramel eyes. "Have you two talked about it?"
"Not exactly," I admit. "When he sprung the news on me, I was too upset to even digest it, let alone discuss it further. He tried to see me before he left, and I get a video chat notification from him every single day without fail, but I never accept. I've been avoiding the elephant in the room at all costs."
"Why?"
"I don't freaking know." I release a deep exhale. "Because I'm not sure what to say...because I have no idea what we should do? I'm beyond confused."
"Lexie." Rayne frowns. "Do you want to be with him?"
"Yes. One thousand percent yes," I answer adamantly. "But I don't want this to become something negative for the both of us. Like I'm holding him back from living his life or vice versa."
More doubts start to flit through my mind. They're unwelcome and extremely stupid, but that doesn't stop them from prickling at my skin like a bad rash until I blurt them out.
"And the whole professional soccer player thing? There's no way it's not going to cause problems between us. Who knows how the fame and money will affect him? How it will change him."
"Not everyone loses their mind with notability and wealth," she argues. "He can stay grounded."
"Hopefully. He said his brother fell victim to it for a while, so we'll see..." Another worry strikes. "You know he's going to have women throwing themselves at him left and right. And they won't just be cute, harmless Windhaven students anymore. They'll be models and socialites and beautiful beyond compare. At some point, he'll realize phone sex with his old college girlfriend isn't as good as the real thing. Can he stay committed in a situation like that?"
God.
The shit pouring out of my mouth sounds so dumb and insecure. But I'm a girl. A girl with a vulnerable heart and a boy I'm terrified to lose. I'm in desperate need of some reassurance that things will be alright.
"You know he will," R says gently. "He's not the same guy he used to be. He loves you, Lex, and if you two are together, there's no question of his fidelity. Don't let those kind of thoughts seep into your mind; they're a waste of space."
Her words provide me with some momentary relief. I do trust Weston when it comes to that, but it's just one of many possible roadblocks plaguing my brain.
"Everything's going to be fine, Lexie. You just need to talk to him." She nudges her chin towards the TV. "And just so you know, I've seen this one before. You'll be happy to hear things are A-Okay in the end."
I skip over the fact that it's a freaking movie and no duh the ending is happy and wonderful and coated in cinnamon-sugar. Instead, I address the other major difference between the circumstances.
"But R. This isn't some four hour drive from Atlanta to small-town Alabama," I stress. "Weston's in another country. In a time zone that's six hours ahead of us. I won't be able to jump in my car and surprise him on the weekends. He's a 9-hour, thousands-of-dollars f
light away from here. It's not the same."
She shakes her head with conviction. "Love knows no bounds, Lex. Whether the distance spans from Dallas to Fort Worth or from Earth to freaking Jupiter, if you want to make it work, you'll find a way. It's as simple as that. No more and no less."
I'm silently contemplating her words when my cell starts buzzing obnoxiously on the side table.
As I read the texts on my screen, all my other thoughts instantly fade into background noise because—
Chelsea: Guess what time it is?
Chelsea: It's BABY TIME!
My stomach lurches with anticipation as I type a hasty response.
Me: Ahhh!!!! She's early!
"Oh my God, oh my God," I mutter before releasing a little squeal.
"What's going on?" Rayne asks as she shoves another cookie in her mouth. "Is it Weston?"
I shake my head. "It's Chels. She's in labor."
"Exciting!" Rayne says before she frowns. "Are you going to be in the room?"
Nodding, I stand from the couch. "Her husband's the designated right-leg holder, and I've got left-leg duty. She can't birth the little tot without me!"
"Oh, so you'll have a front row seat to, uh, the main event." Her face goes a little green at the thought. "Have...fun?"
I reach down, giving my roommate a knock-the-breath-outta-you hug. "Thanks for everything. I owe you for today."
"Just loosen your grip and we'll call it even," she chokes out.
"Deal."
With a laugh, I rush to my room, grab a bag, and start throwing some necessities in it: clothes, toiletries, all seven Harry Potter books.
Who knows how long I'll be there?
Chelsea: Get your skinny little butt to the hospital so I can squeeze your hand until I accidentally break your fingers.
Chelsea: ...& I wish I was kidding about that last part. Ryan's already got a splint on his pinky on my account. These contractions are no joke :0
Um, ouch?!
I dig in my closet, fishing out a pair of boxing gloves buried deep inside. I bought the thick, pink gloves last year when Jess dragged me to a few workout sessions with her punching-bag-obsessed trainer. After realizing boxing wasn't my jam, I considered selling these online a few times.
The fragile bones in my fingers are very, very grateful I didn't.
I toss the stuffed bag over my shoulder and haul ass out the door.
Me: ETA: 20 min
Me: Shut your legs until I get there!
38
London, England
"Yo, Wes!"
Rhett exits his bedroom, dressed in tan slacks and a fitted navy blazer. Running both hands through his brown hair, he shapes it into a perfectly-disheveled style that seems to be genetic.
"Yo, Rhett," I mimic as I gesture to his get-up. "Where you headed?"
"Out with Eliana. Headed for a few pints at the pub." He flashes a wicked smile in my direction. "She's just finished a photoshoot, so she'll be all glammed up and sparkly and looking fine as fuck tonight."
"Sweet," I say with a laugh. "Have a good time."
My bro was not exaggerating about his obsession with gorgeous women. I've only been staying at his flat for fourteen days, but I swear I've met more than twenty Vogue-cover-caliber girls as they emerged from his room morning, day, and night.
Dude is more of a womanizer than I ever was, and that's a serious feat.
That shit must run in our DNA, too.
Despite the fact that he's older and (supposedly) more mature, I'm the one who's grown out of that phase of life. Hell, it's hard to remember why I enjoyed that crap in the first place.
Getting my dick wet with random chicks I don't give one fuck about?
Doesn't sound remotely satisfying after being with someone I legit care for.
Half of Rhett's lovers have tried to proposition me, often before they've even caught their breath from rolling around in his sheets. A select, kinky few have actually wanted me and my bro at the same damn time, which is just fucking gross on so many levels. "I have a girlfriend" was out of my mouth before they could get the full suggestion out.
And, sure, the girls are pretty, but I'm not tempted whatsoever.
Lexie's more beautiful than all of them combined.
Damn.
Just the mere thought of her has my chest tightening and my lungs seizing up like I'm having a freaking asthma attack.
I miss her like hell.
Rhett interrupts before my mind can spiral down that path again. "Meet up with us afterwards? We'll most likely hit up a few clubs, maybe some VIP parties. You should come."
"I'll think about it," I say with a shrug. "Might have other plans."
"'K." He snatches the keys to one of his cars and holds his cell to his ear, shaking it a few times. "Give me a ring if you decide to join, man. The more the merrier."
The second he's out the door, I flop down on the massive couch.
Truth is, I'm so damn sore I'm not sure I could even drag my ass down to the lobby so the concierge could get me a cab.
The other plans I was referring to? Icing every last inch of my body until I can walk properly again.
Rhett might be used to the grueling practice schedule, but I'm sure as shit not.
My two-week trial with the club has been strenuous, to say the least.
I started my tryout with the U23's which was only fair considering I have no professional background. My stint there was short-lived; after showing off my badass free-kick abilities by scoring multiple goals from 30+ yards out, I was quickly promoted to a First Team trial.
That's when things got real.
The world-class talent surrounding me, the intensity of the training sessions...I mean, fuck.
College soccer seems like a pathetic joke in comparison.
Being a footballer in the U.K. is serious business—my aching muscles can attest to that.
Suddenly, my back pocket begins to ring.
I hit answer and start my greeting, but a sharp pain shoots through my bicep as I lift the phone to my ear. "Hell—ow."
"Hell-ow? Is this some more college-kid slang I need to add to my vocabulary? Let me put it on the list with Gucci, lit, and G.O.A.T." My mom's carefree laugh echoes on the line before she starts trying out variations on the made-up word. "Hell-ow! Hell-owww. It is catchy."
"Jesus, Mom. I was trying to say hello. Damn," I say with a grunt. "Please don't start incorporating hell-ow into everyday conversation. People are gonna think you're out of your mind."
"And that would be any different than usual how...?" she jokes.
"That's what you get for going into town with paint smeared across your face and splattered all over your clothes. And the brushes sticking out of your hair and every freaking pocket?" I laugh as I picture her everyday outfit. "The nutcase vibe is strong, Mom."
"I embrace the crazed-artist look, thank you kindly," she drawls. "It fits my persona."
"True. So what's up?" I ask as I rise into a sitting position. Luckily, I manage to do so without creating another pain-influenced term for her to abuse.
"I'm working on a piece for the new collection. I've been staring at a half-finished canvas for the past two hours. It's supposed to be a mystical, cascading waterfall, but something's off. For some reason, all I'm seeing is Rip Van Winkle's beard."
I roll my eyes. "Sounds like a break is long over-due."
"Precisely. And that's why I decided to give you a call. How's everything going?"
"Good."
"Good? Good? That's all you've got for me?" I can't see her, but I know she's shaking her head. My mom freaking loveees to talk, and she won't let me off the hook until I match her enthusiasm for conversation. "Let's try this again, kid; how's it goin' over there? I hope your brother is showing you a good time."
I glance around Rhett's penthouse and grin. The snazzy downtown building he lives in, the silky Egyptian cotton sheets on my California King bed, the un-fucking-believable skyline views...
/> "Yeah," I say. "He's not failing in the host department."
"Glad to hear it. And the team? How's your trial coming along?"
"I'm kicking ass," I answer arrogantly.
She chuckles at my response. "I wouldn't expect anything less from a Paine man. Soccer's engrained in your blood." I hear the familiar sound of her swirling paint brushes in a cup of water. "When will you sign a contract?"
"Tomorrow." I scratch the back of my neck. "Dad wants to sign me tomorrow."
"Ah, okay. That's soon." The swish of liquid comes to a halt. "And how long is the contract for?"
"Five years."
"You're willing to commit to the team for five entire years, then?"
"Yeah?" My response comes out unsure, so I clear my throat and try again. "Yeah. Why not?"
"I'm just trying to make sure you're absolutely positive about your decision. I know you've been back-and-forth on Arsenal, so be certain this is what you really want. Not your dad, not your brother, and not your friends. You."
"I know, I know," I mumble.
An uneasy feeling washes over me, but I quickly brush it off.
"And here's some more motherly advice for you. After this phone call, I need you to do me a favor. I want you to close your eyes, get into a meditative state—"
"Mom," I groan. "Not this new-age bullshit again."
"Hush, child, and listen to your mama. Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and I want you to picture your future. Picture it two, five, ten years down the road. Truly visualize it before you sign that contract tomorrow, okay?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Nope. Nuh-uh. Don't 'yeah, sure' me. Promise me you'll do it."
I dunno what the hell she's trying to get at, but she's using her 'mom-knows-best' voice, so I heave an annoyed sigh and do her one better than a promise.
"I swear. Will that work for you?"
"That'll do it. Aha!"
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