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Mickey hums, thinking. Then she says, “Well you know how I live my life, right?”
“Fearlessly,” I say.
She giggles. “Hardly. I have my own hurt too. But what helps me is accepting that it’s not going to go away. That it’s a piece of me. I can’t control it.”
“Is this supposed to be uplifting?” I mutter half-teasing.
“But,” she continues, “because I can’t control it, I focus on what I can control. I decide what I want to do and do it, and I don’t allow the hurt to change the way I live my life. I can’t stop it from butting in with its opinions but with some practice I’ve learned that I can usually get it to shut up after a while.”
After hanging up with Mickey, I leave the room and head downstairs. Nick’s door is closed but I have no idea whether he’s behind it or not. The only clue is the scent of cinnamon wafting through the air, though perhaps it’s only left over from last night. I know it’s lingered on me.
After wandering through the gilded halls of the historic, luxury hotel, I happen upon a small café. I order a coffee in very bad French (high school was a long time ago), and sit where I can see the street.
Already tourists are out with cameras, clogging up the sidewalk while French people walk to work or go about errands. I’d like to see some sites while we’re here, but realistically this is a trip for work, not for pleasure. It’s another point against trying to make a go of things with Nick: a ton of people are counting on this cruise going well. Hundreds of millions are on the line. Dan is eagerly awaiting my updates. Isn’t it selfish to be mucking around with romance and my personal life when I have a job to do?
Another excuse. There are plenty of them. I sip my espresso glumly. Really it does all come back to what Mickey had said. I need to accept what had happened, believe in myself regardless, and continue to do what I want without letting past trauma affect my decisions.
Easy peasy.
At least I can enjoy a quiet moment to myself to contemplate all this. Though there are a lot of people I’d rather not run into staying at this hotel so maybe it would have been a better idea to move further down the street. It would really suck if?—
As if summoned by my thoughts, I suddenly sense a presence at my elbow. My stomach clenches with dread and I turn to look up into the bright blue eyes of my former best friend in the world.
Cheryl is dressed chicly in black, her blonde hair in a high ponytail, a latte in her manicured claw.
“Can I join you?” she asks.
I want to shout fuck no and maybe throw the rest of my espresso at her. It would be what Mickey would do. Maybe it would even be what I’d do if Mickey were here to back me up. Instead I nod stiffly and she takes the chair in front of me.
Cheryl fusses with her latte for a moment, adding sugar and stirring it until she’s absolutely sure that none of the crystals have settled at the bottom. It’s only when she’s exhausted all other distractions that she looks up at me.
“Obviously this was a surprise to us too,” she says.
I blink and say nothing. What is there to say that I didn’t already scream at them several months ago? I wait for her to continue. Brent had done most — if not all — of the talking that fateful day. This is the first time we’ve been alone together since. Maybe Cheryl does have a heart capable of feeling regret or shame. Maybe she’s come to apologize.
Instead she throws what shouldn’t be a curve-ball but still manages to surprise me: “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay in Europe.”
My eyes narrow. I still say nothing.
Cheryl pauses, waiting for me to speak, and becomes visibly irritated when I don’t. She flicks a crumb off the table and then sits back, crossing her arms.
“It’s just that Kara and Dax know about how you attacked Brent when he ended things with you. They’re pretty freaked out.”
My face is frozen. Disbelief ices over my features.
Cheryl gets tired of waiting for me to speak. “Now I’m sure you don’t want to be embarrassed by being asked to leave…”
“I didn’t attack Brent,” I say flatly.
“The ski pole?—”
“Went into the television,” I say. My anger, barely suppressed through calming thoughts of kittens and my meditation app, is starting to melt the ice. “Believe me, if I had attacked him, he would still be in the hospital.”
Cheryl’s face pinches. “So you’re threatening him now? That’s not a good look, Evie. God, I never knew you were so?—”
“Delusional?” I cut her off again. Idiotic? Naive?
“Unhinged,” she says with a curl of her lip. “You managed to hide it pretty well for a while, but you’re a real freak. I don’t know how Brent managed to stay with you as long as he did.”
