One Good Reason. Sarah MayberryЧитать онлайн книгу.
she’d loved him.
It still hurt, even after all these years. She turned her back on her reflection, unwilling to play witness to her own unhappiness. Which pretty much answered the big question, didn’t it?
She brushed her teeth, staring at the tile wall. Once she was finished, she walked into the bedroom and stripped to her underwear. Kicking her clothes into the corner, she crawled beneath the covers.
The sheets were cool against her skin and she shivered as she waited for them to warm, legs drawn up, arms pulled tightly to her chest.
On nights such as these, she used to make Tyler spoon her from behind, the heat of his body like a furnace against her back. She’d loved feeling his warm breath on the nape of her neck, loved having one of his strong arms wrapped around her. Tyler had always moved in his sleep, however—he’d liked to spread out, to have his own space. Nine times out of ten she’d woken to find their positions reversed, him curling away from her while she clung to his back, her body molded to his.
Chasing him, needing him, even in her sleep.
She made a distressed sound and burrowed deeper into the pillow. It didn’t stop the tears from coming. Four years’ worth, pushed down deep.
The truth was, she’d never allowed herself to grieve for Tyler. She’d been too busy being tough. Moving on. Assuring him there were no hard feelings and that they’d still be a part of each other’s lives. She’d convinced herself that she’d done all her grieving beforehand, before she’d made the painful, wrenching decision to call things off between them. She’d been so sure she had it all together, that she was on top of it.
More fool her.
Her pillow was getting wet. She rolled onto her back. The sound of her sobs seemed very loud in her quiet bedroom. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes down her temples into her hair. She pressed her palms to her sternum and pushed, willing the ache to go away.
She didn’t want to still love Tyler. She didn’t want to be this weak and tragic.
Dear God, if Mom could see me now, she’d kick my backside into the middle of next week.
The thought prompted a hiccuping laugh. Gabby sniffed noisily, then sat up and wiped at her eyes with the backs of her hands.
She’d been raised by a fiercely independent woman who’d prided herself on never needing anyone—men being at the very top of that list. Divorced from Gabby’s father when Gabby was only two years old and her sister, Angela, barely one, Rachel Wade had thrown herself into single motherhood like an Amazonian warrior. She’d taught herself how to change fuses, tap washers and car tires and had hammered into her daughters from the moment they were old enough to understand that they always had to stand on their own two feet and that no one could ever make them unhappy unless they allowed it.
Nice in theory, but often not so great in practice, as Gabby and her sister had discovered many times over the years.
Fortunately for Gabby, her mother was halfway around the world at present, living her dream of working and traveling through Europe.
Still, the thought of her mother was enough to make Gabby reach for the box of tissues. She blew her nose, mopped her eyes dry. Then she switched pillows and lay down and tried to go to sleep.
There wasn’t much else she could do, after all. She’d been in love before—Billy Harrison when she was seventeen, Gareth Devenish when she was in her early twenties. Neither of them had been as important in her life as Tyler was, but both experiences had taught her that there was no willing away a broken heart. She would simply have to wait the pain out.
It’s been four years. How long do you freaking want?
A good question. A scary one, too, because she’d already wasted four years longing for something she could never have.
She fell asleep late and woke early. The first thing she did was walk to her wardrobe and throw the doors open. She had to dig deep to get past jeans and yet more jeans, but after a few minutes she pulled out her black leather miniskirt and her stiletto ankle boots. A rummage in her chest of drawers produced the tight orange tank that through some mysterious trick of design managed to give her cleavage. In the shower, she shaved her legs and her armpits, washed and conditioned and exfoliated. Then she smoothed on body lotion and pulled out her make-up bag. Twenty minutes later she inspected herself in the mirror on the back of her bedroom door.
She’d always had good legs, and her backside was a nice shape, neat and round and perky. The boots and the skirt she’d chosen made the most of her two best assets, while the tank and push-up bra worked their magic upstairs.
Jon was going to eat his words when he saw her this morning. He was going to take one look at her in this outfit and realize how wrong he’d been about her. He was going to—
Gabby froze in the act of spritzing on her most expensive perfume as it occurred to her that, as well as all those other things, he was going to know that she’d done all this—the legs, the hair, the makeup, the clothes—for him. To prove something to him. Because she cared what he thought.
“Damn it.”
Annoyed with herself, Gabby stripped. Dressed only in her underwear, she pushed hangers out of the way until finally, at the back of the wardrobe, she found what she was looking for—a pair of shapeless cargo pants she kept for really dirty work. The top shelf yielded the box with her Doc Martens boots, a relic from her teen years. She was stumped for a moment with regard to the top, but then inspiration struck and she grinned. Throwing herself across the bed, she grabbed the phone from the nightstand and dialed.
“Jen, it’s Gabby. Sorry it’s so early, but I need to borrow something …”
No way was she going to let Jon think that she cared what he thought or said. No. Way.
JON WOKE BATHED IN SWEAT, HIS heart racing. It took a full five seconds to work out where he was and that he’d been dreaming.
He let out a sigh and lifted a hand to his face. His skin felt clammy and cold. Throwing back the covers, he stood and walked out of the bedroom and into the apartment’s living space. He poured coffee into a fresh filter and turned on the coffee machine.
Hard to work out what was worse—suffering broken sleep from the nightmares that had become his almost nightly companions since he’d given up drinking or waking with a thundering hangover.
This morning’s dream had been a doozy—his father storming up the hallway of their family home toward him, the thick leather belt he favored for beatings clutched in one hand. Tyler’s whimpers of fear from behind him. No sign of his mother, although Jon knew she should be there, that she should be the one standing between them and the monster bearing down on them. The almost overwhelming urge to run had gripped him. The need to abandon Tyler and run, run, run to save himself. And then, finally, he’d been hit with the dawning, horrible knowledge that there was no escape, that there was nothing he could do to save himself or his brother.
Really restful stuff. The kind of stuff that made a guy want to spring out of bed whistling a tune, ready to head out into the day to rub shoulders with his fellow man.
The carafe was full. He grabbed a cup, poured coffee, stirred in sugar. Mug in hand, he wandered over to the sliding doors that led out onto his tiny balcony. He glanced at the redbrick wall opposite, then changed his mind about going outside. The lack of view hadn’t bothered him when he’d taken the place, but the looming wall that filled every window was starting to get on his nerves.
No one’s forcing you to stay. Book a ticket, get on a plane. Go find someplace with no memories, no ties. No expectations.
It was what he’d wind up doing eventually, he was sure. But he wasn’t ready to go. Not yet.
He wasn’t sure what was holding him back. But soon enough he’d get over whatever it was, pack his meager belongings and head off to a new start somewhere.
Downing the last of his coffee, he dumped