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I stumble to the bathroom as Tiff and Eb dash after me and throw up my glass of chardonnay straight into the toilet bowl.
Chapter Thirty-One
Eb and Tiff don’t say a word as they barge into the cubicle to join me. Eb kneels by my side as I retch another dry heave, and rubs my shoulder in silent comfort.
“Sorry,” I manage to say.
“Sorry for what? I’d be chucking up myself if I was in your position.”
“Same,” Tiff says. “What a fucking tosser.”
I know Connor is a tosser, but no matter how many times I think I’ve had the last gut punch from him, along comes another.
I finish retching and get myself into a sitting position with my back against the cubicle wall. I don’t want to cry, I really don’t. Connor doesn’t deserve my tears. FUCK HIM.
Tiff joins me and Eb on the floor, and they squeeze one of my knees each, all of us crammed in here with the door still swinging wide. Another woman steps into the bathroom and gives us a double take, then a snidey side eye, shaking her head. She’s got to be in her late fifties and made up to the max, and it rubs salt into the wound – taking me back to the days I felt like a girl who could never belong in a place like this.
I feel so fucking vulnerable, breathing deep in a last-ditch effort to get my composure back, but when Josh strolls into the ladies’ and stands in the cubicle doorway with solid concern in his eyes, it’s too much. I choke the tears back and end up in another dry heave. Then a-fucking-nother. The girls move away to give him space, and it’s him who sits down beside me this time and rubs his hand up and down my back. I still have the sound of Connor’s voice in my head, singing those dumb fucking lyrics. I can still see the video, with him sitting there strumming away, like he used to do in front of me. Every. Single. Day. And now, finally, the whole world is seeing it. Years of dreams finally coming true.
Josh’s arm is strong around my shoulder, holding me tight as I finally break and retch and cry, wrecked. I’m probably snotting all over his suit jacket, but he doesn’t care, just soothes me like I’m a young, broken teenager in his arms.
That’s what I feel like, all over again.
“Time to go home,” he says, when I finally manage to start breathing properly. He tears some toilet paper from the roll and hands it over, and the smeared makeup that lands on the tissue only confirms what a wreck I must look.
“You shouldn’t have to see this,” I tell him, embarrassed. “This is my bullshit with Connor, not your pathetic mess to handle. You shouldn’t have to deal with this crap over my stupid ex, because I don’t even love him anymore. I love you. It’s just…”
I struggle for words.
How can I explain it?
I love the man sitting at my side more than I could ever say, and Connor is in the past, like a piece of shit I’ve been trying to scrape off my shoe, but he won’t disappear. He keeps appearing in my path, jumping out like a nightmare.
“Trying to move on from someone doesn’t mean they can’t hurt you,” Josh says. “They are still armed and loaded, with enough ammo to shoot you down.” He kisses my head. “Come on, baby, let’s get out of here. I’ve already made our excuses, don’t worry.”
I cringe again at the thought of them all discussing it at the table. Mack will probably be snort laughing, not that I give a fuck. Or I shouldn’t. It’s another stupid, painful memory that rises up from the depths, though. Being laughed at when I was at school, like I was a stupid, worthless freak, everyone discussing my life like it was a free-for-all.
This crowd aren’t like that, though. Tiff and Eb would slam down anyone who tried to slate me, and I know it, just as I’d do the same for them.
Josh helps me to my feet and flushes the toilet. Luckily it was only wine I sicked up, not a main course and dessert. Small mercies.
I catch sight of myself in the big mirror, and let out a dry laugh. My eyeliner and mascara are all down my cheeks. I could be in The Crow. I try to wipe it away with tissues and it kind of works, at least enough to get out of here without every head in the place turning to stare at me.
“Ready?” Josh asks, and I nod as I take his hand.
A couple of women give horrified back steps on their way in when they see Josh in here with me, but he appeases them with a smile.
“My apologies, ladies. I’m leaving now.”
“I needed him,” I tell them. “I was, um, being ill.”
They give nods as we pass them by, and I hurry as quickly as I can through the restaurant, down the stairs on a mission to get out of here and into a cab. I want to go home. Now. I need to be at home in my PJs, safe on the sofa and out of view.
It’s only when we’re in the cab I get a flare of regret.
Why did I let that prick wreck my time, again?
Why do I give a shit that he’s singing a song about me, shaming me over bullshit that isn’t even true?
