Page 39 of Tears of Glass

Nothing makes sense.

My stomach gives an almighty lion’s growl. I’m going to have to go to the supermarket—it’s now unavoidable.

I don’t bother with a shower; instead making do with a quick teeth brush and tying my hair into a ponytail that looks perkier than I feel. I’ll walk to the shop. Maybe clearing my head will give me some clarity on what I should be doing with my life next. I seem to be at a crossroads and don’t know which way to go. I miss Al. I’d love to hear his rumbling voice and have him set me right. The pain in my heart, that breath-catching ache, stabs deeper and deeper as I consider never hearing his voice again.

Life without Al.

It sucks.

He’d know what to do. He always knew what to do. As I double lock the front door behind me, I manage to unlock my phone one-handed and scroll to the D’s in my address book. I press Dan’s name and wait for him to answer. It rings five times and I’m listening to the sixth wondering if he’s day drunk—morning drunk—whatever, when a woman’s voice answers. JoAnne.

It’s utterly stupid but I freeze as she calls ‘hello’ down the line.

Then I hang up even though I’ve got no reason to. Crap. I chuck my phone in my pocket and make my way down the stairs.

Straight into a giant bouquet of dusky pink roses.

Holy crap.

The roses lower and I’m met with delphinium blue eyes. My stomach clenches and heats. “I was going for more of a good morning than a scream attack.”

“Elijah, I don't want you here.” I fold my arms across my chest, and glare at the roses—as close to the ink on my chest as can be—and the man holding them. It's a huge bunch; I can't even count the blooms.

“I bought you breakfast, Faith. I figured you'd be hungry after the failed lasagne.”

Is this guy actually for real? “Elijah, the only reason the lasagne was a fail was because you ruined it by dropping the mother of all bombshells when the poor guy was least expecting it. Heads up. Next time, wait for the steaming lasagne to be on the table before you decide to impart shocking news.”

“I find honesty best at all times.” He has the downright cheek to smirk at me over the blooms of roses.

I snort. “That's rich coming from you. Nothing is honest about you.” He thrusts the bouquet at me, filling my arms to the brim.

“Here, look. It’s just breakfast.” Another packet lands on top of the flowers and the undeniable scent of chocolate and pastry fills the air. He leans down and picks up an espresso cup, handing it over to me. How he expects me to take it I have no idea; my arms are full of flowers and pastry.

I sigh deeply although it's not easy with my head full of the intoxicating scents. “Elijah, I don't know how to say this to you in a way that you will understand. But I don't want you here. I don't want to see you, speak to you, smell that manly scent thing you’ve got going on. Bowsley is over, done. Finished. Complete.”

“I thought we could go for walk?

He is seriously not listening to me!

“Are you listening to me?” I would throw my hands in the air, but they are incapacitated by roses. “Because, you're a two-timing, lying bastard.”

“You are ridiculous, Faith. You haven't even asked me what happened. You’ve just assumed you know everything.

My hand snaps the stem of a rose, which considering I want to snap one of his limbs or possibly his penis, isn’t too bad. “I think your mother standing on a stage in front of a crowd of people and announcing you're getting married is more than enough. I don't need to know anything else.”

“Faith, I told you, I’m not getting married. I was trying to protect you. Nobody else, just you. So why the hell didn't you come and find me?” His voice rises. I’ve never heard him shout. “Why the hell didn't you give me shit, shout at me, scream, make a scene? The only thing you did was walk away from me.”

I thrust the flowers onto the floor, shaking from top to toe. “She said you were getting married.” My voice is a hoarse whisper and I jab my fingers towards his chest.

“And I said that I loved you.” We both jump apart and stop talking as another front door slams up the stairwell. Someone clatters down, but the guy doesn’t even stop to pay us any attention as he rushes past.

Once the person is gone, I get ready to push past Elijah, but his hand is on my elbow holding me in place. “Walk with me, Faith. Listen to me.”

I shake my head. I can't listen to him. Inside my chest is a swirling vortex of emotions I can't control. I want to cry out, to hit him, and maybe just maybe I want to put these flowers into water.

“It is a walk, Faith. What's the very worst that can happen?”

The very worst that can happen is that I can trust him. I know that's not possible. There is no trust left inside me to even give to him—that I want to give to him.