AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I never get to watch her sleep. I usually make the grave mistake of falling asleep first, but I can’t help that she puts me at ease. She always has, from the first time we shared a bed in London. Even when I wanted to hate her and wanted to make her regret rejecting me, she still calmed me with her presence.
I’ve never felt this way before.
After ten minutes, I decide that waking up before Julia is great, but not my cup of tea. I’m itching for her to wake up too. When she finally blinks her eyes open and smiles broadly even though I’m the first thing she sees, I can’t help but grin.
Yeah, I’m done for.
We fuck twice. Once in the bed and once in the shower—efficient both times because Julia is hungry. I make a call to the front desk, and they set a world record for delivery. It makes her so happy, she removes her robe and eats her Greek yogurt naked while I sit there and enjoy the view. It’s the best damn cup of coffee I’ve ever had.
After, we take a long stroll through Vienna, window shopping (quite literally—at one point, Julia looks at the window display at a store and proceeds to buy everything in the window) and drinking coffee on the go. We split a piece of strudel from a touristy bakery, hastily decide to buy a better strudel at Café Landtmann, and immediately regret eating so much strudel.
As we linger in Café Landtmann, we talk about our college days, our best and worst encounters with other tech CEOs, and engage in a hearty debate about the best type of French fry (I say steak, she says crispy—because she’s a psychopath). Julia’s laugh covers every inch of her face, pretty and full and so rich that I can’t believe I spent so much time upsetting her.
And yet I still wonder how far this can go. The nagging in my spine, the sting of old wounds, continues to plague me. Like she possesses a sixth sense, Julia places her hand on mine.
“Are you ready to talk about it?” she asks me.
My eyes stay on my coffee. “Talk about what?”
“The woman who hurt you,” she clarifies. “I wish you had told me sooner. I would have…”
When she trails off, I inhale and shake my head. “Don’t pity me.”
“But I do.”
“Please don’t,” I snap, wishing I could soften my tone—but Constance does this to me. “I mean it. The reason I didn’t want to tell you was because—”
“Because you loved someone who ended up hurting you?” she questions, and the words sting me. “What’s embarrassing about that?”
“It’s more than that.”
“So tell me. I’ve had breakups before and I know they suck. You went on a coke bender. Big deal. So many people have. It doesn’t make me think less of you.”
I inhale, steeling myself. “I spiraled, Julia,” I finally admit, forcing the words out. “I didn’t just get sad about the breakup. I spiraled. It was scary. Terrifying. If I hadn’t written down half the shit I did when I was coked out, I would have no idea what happened for days on end.”
For once, she has nothing to say. But her eyes linger on me, big and sympathetic and without judgment.
“I’m obsessive,” I go on, waiting for her to falter. “When I get something into my head, I’m obsessed with it. Coding. Algorithms. Ideas for businesses. Building the cabin. I’ve forced myself to be obsessed with those parts of my life because anything else would be unhealthy. I don’t eat, I don’t sleep, I don’t do anything but work.”
“August.”
“Is that what you want?” I go on, feeling my neck heat. “You want me to be obsessed with you? Because it may sound fun at first, Julia, but you’re going to hate it eventually. You’re going to want me to give you space, and I’m not going to be able to do it. I’m going to need you all the fucking time. You’re going to want to leave, and I won’t want to let you. It’s not healthy. It’s not fair to you.”
“Take a breath,” she advises before she moves her hand to my arm. “Take a breath and tell me her name.”
It takes me a moment to comprehend her request. Even then, I don’t understand.
“The woman who hurt you. What was her name?” she presses.
“Constance. Constance Ripley.”
“Perfect,” Julia declares. She takes out her phone. “Distinctive.”
She focuses on her phone, typing and swiping, until she flips it around so I can see it. “Is this her?”
Sure enough, the image on the screen is Constance. I haven’t looked at a picture of her in twenty years, but I’d never forget her face. It’s an image of her, a man, and two young children posed in front of a Christmas tree.
“That’s her. How did you find her?”
