I’m realizing I’ve become an object, something pretty and pleasing, meant to be consumed by the media and Rhys’s fans, ignoring all along that I am someone who needs to get healthy, and have fun, and let perfect go.
All things I can’t do if I’m with Rhys. His obsession with appearances makes me feel more insecure and insufficient than ever.
I am skinnier and blonder than I’ve ever been. I am the perfect, low-key girl who takes up as little space as possible in Rhys’s life.
And I have never been unhappier.
I’ve got a little less than four weeks left in Madrid. For a while now—maybe a month or two—Rhys has been asking me to stay in Spain for another semester. “I need my good luck charm to stick around,” he says. I’ve dragged my feet on filling out the application without really knowing why.
But now I get it. I’m so glad I haven’t. I can’t keep doing this.
Is it too late to change, to start my bucket list?, I wonder.
Am I already out of time?
I almost jump when Rhys clasps my hand in his. He rolls his head on the headrest, lips parting in a grin as he meets my eyes.
He is ebullient, relaxed; he is in his element, taking a private jet to London for an extravagant party hosted by his sponsor, the champagne company. They hired Rhys to be in their new advertising campaign. All across Europe you can see giant billboards of him, wearing nothing but a strategically placed bottle of champagne and that trademark smirk of his.
Picturing the billboard in my head, my anger and sadness and self-loathing crash through me with renewed strength. As hot as Rhys looks in it, that billboard represents all the reasons I shouldn’t be with him.
It represents everything I said I’d leave behind at Meryton.
“You happy?” Rhys asks.
I blink. Don’t cry don’t you dare cry.
I’m not happy. That’s become clear to me in the past few months. If my constant, obsessive dieting didn’t tip me off to that fact, the meltdown I had a couple weeks ago on the scale when I discovered I gained one pound—one freaking pound!—after starving myself for most of a long weekend in Mallorca really drove the point home.
For so long I had fooled myself into thinking I was happy with Rhys. Now I understand I mistook the appearance of happiness for happiness itself. Our relationship may look perfect from the outside, especially if you read the papers and the gossip sites. But it’s not. Being with him has made me miserable. Letting him sweet talk me into all this ridiculousness has robbed me of my self-respect.
I’m scared to tell him. I’m scared for a lot of reasons, but most of all because he’s still convinced I’m his good luck charm. I hate to think what will happen if—when—I leave him.
And how do I explain why I’m bailing? He’ll ask why I didn’t confide in him sooner about how unhealthy I was back in Meryton and how I’m unhealthy like that now—again—and I don’t have an answer to that question. Why didn’t I? Because I’m an idiot? A people-pleasing coward? Both?
My intentions were always good. But it’s time I owned up to my mistakes and started chasing my dreams and looking after my health before it’s too late.
I just have to figure out how to tell him.
I glance at our joined hands, offering Rhys a watery smile. “Sure. Yeah. Yes, very happy.”
***
Rhys
Laura says that a lot—yes. “Yes, I’m happy”, or “yes, I like that” or “yes, this is fun”. But with each “yes”, I believe her less and less.
Tonight I don’t believe her at all. She looks as beautiful as she always does, dressed to the nines in tight jeans and heeled boots, her dark blond waves loose about her shoulders. But there’s something off about her hazel eyes. They’re glassy, unsure.
“Hey,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze. “Are you feeling all right?”
She looks away, out the window. “Yes. Just a little nervous about the flight—the weather in London is supposed to be bad.”
I believe that “yes” even less than the one she gave me a minute ago. But what the hell am I supposed to do? There’s only so many times I can ask her how she’s feeling.
I go to the ends of the Earth to keep a smile on her face. Shopping sprees, trips to Rome and Paris and the Spanish coast and wherever else she wants to go, jewelry, dinner at Michelin-starred restaurants—I’ve done it all for her, everything I’m supposed to, and still I feel her slipping through my fingers.
I need Laura to stay. I’m hoping to convince her to extend her study abroad adventure in Madrid another semester, but she has yet to commit to it. I won’t see her go, not when I’m playing as well as I am. Not when the squad is making our way toward a league title; not when my career and my contract are at risk. Right now, our tentative plan is for each of us to head home for Christmas in a month or so; Laura’s already bought her ticket to Philadelphia, and I’ll be going to Wales to see my family. I hope—I sincerely hope—Laura will meet me back in Spain in January.
The moment Laura came into my life, I started playing like the superstar I’ve always wanted to be. The superstar I need to be if I want to get paid enough to look after the people I love back home. I run harder after we spend a weekend together; I play smarter after we fuck; I’ve scored more goals and made more assists in the three months since I’ve met her than I did all of the season I had before I hurt my knee.
Call me superstitious, but I take that as a sign that I need to be with Laura. When you want to play footy better than anyone else in the world, you take these things very seriously. And I take my good luck charm seriously indeed.
As far as I could tell—and I know men tend to be thick as boards about this sort of thing, so perhaps I missed something—Laura was as happy as I was back in August, when we began seeing one another. We had sex a lot and laughed even more. But then she started changing, and I started worrying. She smiles less, enjoys the things I bought her less.
Now, when I catch her looking in the mirror as we brush our teeth in the morning, or after we get out of the shower at night, she looks…lost, I suppose. Like she doesn’t recognize the girl staring back at her.
I’m worried about Laura, but I don’t know what to do.
Still, I’ve got to try.
“Here’s something that might lift your spirits,” I say, tapping our joined hands on her armrest. The high-pitched wail of the airplane intensifies as we move onto the runway. “How about we make a quick stop at Harrod’s on the way to the hotel? Pick up something completely inappropriate for you to wear tonight? A dress with a slit, perhaps. Thigh-high, of course, to show off those glorious legs of yours.”
Laura gives me that tight smile again. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “Good thing I shaved this morning.”
“Did you now?” I say, wagging my brows.
But just as I’m leaning in, Laura turns back to the window. “I’m going to try to get some sleep, if you don’t mind. It’s been a long week.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” I say, even as my pulse thuds.
“Thanks,” she says, and pulls her hand from mine.
***
Later that night
I’m so blinded by camera flashes on the red carpet that for a minute I can’t see a fucking thing. Blinking back the strobe lights that pulse behind my closed lids, I tug at the sleeves of my tux. I’ve got a whole closet of tuxedos back at home, but I’m especially proud of this one: white jacket, smartly cut, worn with black trousers, a perfectly pressed shirt, black silk bowtie, and emerald cufflinks. All custom, all exquisitely expensive. Not that I had to pay for any of it; as a matter of fact, this fashion house pays me to wear their clothes. Not a bad deal.
Growing up in Wales, I’d fantasize about wearing ridiculous clothes to even more ridiculous parties. Clothes like this jacket, which probably costs several times what my mum made in a month.
I wonder how many more Instagram followers the tux, and this event, will get me. Between the fashion house and the champa
gne company, I’m being paid quite a lot to be seen here tonight. Thank God, because mum called yesterday to tell me Mags is ready to apply to Oxford, and Aunt Katie needs a specially equipped van to get her daughter to her new therapist’s office. Dad’s turned up again, and he and my alcoholic cousin Will are worse than ever, drinking and disappearing together for days at a time. The bills keep mounting, and I’ve got to keep earning to pay them.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to look Laura. She looks—Jesus. My pulse roars just like it did earlier tonight, when I saw her for the first time all dressed up. She’s wearing the tight red sheath dress and sky-high black heels we picked out at Harrod’s together. It’s a fuck me outfit if there ever was one, and my God is it working. Her curves are on full, delicious display. I reach down and tug my jacket over my crotch, willing my dick to behave itself for once.
Laura fingers the bottom of my jaw and lifts it back into place, a wicked little smile playing at her lips. “Rhys, you’re staring.”
“You’re hot. Beautiful. Lovely…God.” I dig a hand through my hair. “You’ve reduced me to a blubbering mess, love. Well done.”
Her smile fades. Shit, was it something I said? Should I not have stared at her, not complimented her? I feel like I’m always walking on eggshells around her these days.
“We should head for the ballroom,” she says. “They’re waiting for you. It’s a packed house. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many champagne bottles in my life.”
I hold out my arm. “After you, love.”
I follow her down the hall. I catch several men try—and fail—to hide their ogling as Laura passes. Righting my cufflinks, I bite back a grin while shooting said gents the deadliest glare I can muster. I shouldn’t get off on their jealousy, but I do. I really, really do. Laura is a fucking knockout, and she is mine.
“I can’t wait to get back to the hotel,” I murmur in her ear, hooking a finger in the back of her dress. “I’m going to rip this thing off you. The heels, though—I believe I’d like you to keep those on.”
She turns her head. “We can go back now. To the hotel, I mean. We can just skip this whole thing and get right down to business.”
“You know I can’t do that.” I kiss her bare shoulder. “This won’t go late, I promise. I don’t want to hang out with these people any more than you do.”
“That’s just it, though.” She meets my eyes. “I think you really do. I think you love the attention.”
I blink. “I told you how important all this attention is, love. For me. For my career.”
“But you’re getting tons of attention already for how you’re killing it on the field,” she says. “Why do you need to keep doing stuff like this if your football is speaking for itself?”
“Because,” I say. Because I have eleven—no, twelve, Rachel had her baby—twelve people back home depending on me, most of them dysfunctional and needy and expensive as hell to look after. “Every little bit helps. It’s practically free money. They flew us out here on a private jet, they’ll feed us lobster and champagne. They’re paying for our weekend in London. Really, Laura, why wouldn’t I keep doing stuff like this?”
Laura searches my face. I can’t decipher the strange look in her eyes. We’re standing close, so close I can smell the floral scent of her perfume, but she feels miles away. Miles from my reach.
I open my mouth, determined to find out what’s bugging her, but at that moment we’re ushered inside the ballroom and the mania begins. I shake hands, I smile for selfies, I schmooze. Laura stands dutifully by my side. Even though she tries to hide it, offering a grin here, a hello there, I sense her intense discomfort. I feel at home in front of the camera, and once upon a time, Laura did, too.
But now—now I think she’d rather have her fingernails pulled out than be here with me. I keep smiling, keep signing autographs, but all the while there’s a hand gripping my heart and squeezing, making it difficult to breathe. Whatever is wrong with Laura, I want to fix it. I want to see her face light up with that deadly beautiful smile of hers. I want her to be happy again.
I need her to stay, now more than ever.
We sit at the head table at the front of the room. I hold out Laura’s chair, and she murmurs her thanks as I slide it under the table. I take my seat beside her.
“A glass of champagne?” I hold one out to her. “This is the reserve—less than fifty cases produced every year. Apparently it’s the most expensive champagne in the world.”
Laura takes the champagne with a tight smile. “Sounds like your kind of champagne. You should Instagram it.”
I can’t tell if that’s a dig or a compliment. “You like it?”
“It’s good,” she says, smacking her lips after taking a sip. “Really good. Wow.”
“It’s delicious, isn’t it?” I hold up my glass. I actually think the stuff is quite sweet, but perhaps it’s an acquired taste. Everyone else seems to be enjoying it, so I suppose I’ve got to just keep drinking it until I do, too. “I want to have a great weekend here with you, Laura. London’s my city, and I can’t wait to show you my favorite parts.”
Her eyes, green in the low light of the ballroom, glimmer. “Are you going to show me all the spots you and your friends would hang out at? You know, when you were playing for that youth team here and you were broke as a joke? Because I’d really like to see—”
“No,” I scoff. “Why in the world would you want to visit shabby pubs and even shabbier neighborhoods? Trust me, I’ve got better places to show you now.”
The glimmer in her eyes dims. “Right. Of course.”
I did it again. I said something she didn’t like. But what? No one wants to go to the dreary parts of London when there are five-star hotels to stay at in Kensington, and private tours of the city to be head in Rolls Royce Phantoms. I don’t get it. I don’t want to revisit my past. Not with Laura. Not with anyone, really.
The salad course arrives, then the main course—surf and turf, my favorite treat I love to eat on off weeks like this one, when I don’t have a match—followed by a series of speeches. The CEO, an actor, a few others. I’m getting buzzed off the champagne, having a good time. But when I look back at Laura, I catch her staring at a girl across the table. It’s that girl—Monica, we’ve met a few times before—the one who is famous for being the first plus-sized model to make a splash in Spain. She’s been in the headlines recently for her work with teens recovering from drug abuse. Apparently she’s quite the saint, generous, full of life, sociable; so much so that she’s become a bit of a darling in Madrid. Everyone adores her.
It doesn’t hurt that she’s beautiful. She’s smiling as she chats with the man beside her, a giant, genuine, red-lipped thing that, strangely, makes me feel a bit hollow inside.
I turn back to Laura. She’s watching Monica. A beat later she swallows, hard, her gaze flicking to her plate. She looks like she’s about to hyperventilate. She pokes at her steak with her fork; she’s hardly eaten a bite.
“You really do look lovely tonight,” I say.
“Rhys.” Her fork lands with a ping on her plate. “Rhys, I can’t do this.”
“What?” I ask, swallowing a bite of lobster. It’s bloody delicious. “You don’t like your steak? Here, we’ll send it back. I know you like it a bit rare—”
“No.” The forcefulness of her reply makes my heart skip a beat. “This. Us. You and me. Whatever we are. I can’t do it anymore.”
I blink. “Wait a moment, Laura. Wait. You don’t mean—”
“I do. I can’t—I don’t—I can’t be with you anymore, Rhys.” She meets my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
And then she drops her napkin on the table and pushes back her chair and walks out of the ballroom.
I leap out of my chair and dart after her. People stare as I rush past but I don’t give a shit. Damn it, I’ve lost sight of her—
I can’t let Laura walk out on me like this. I need her to stay.
I need this girl to fucking
stay.
The doorman sees me stalking toward him. Without a word he swings open the door and that’s when I see her on the sidewalk outside, my eyes trailing up the thick gold zipper that runs the length of the back of her dress. Her shoulders are hunched forward, arms tucked across her chest against the cold. A few feet beyond the sidewalk, buckets of rain slide off the hotel awning and pummel the road. The sound is almost deafening.
“Laura.”
She turns. Her eyes are wide and very full.
Chapter 13
Laura
“I’m sorry. I just c-couldn’t—” I draw a sharp breath between my teeth as a tremor wracks my body. I’ve been freezing my ass of all night in this ridiculous dress.
“Jesus Christ, Laura,” Rhys says, tugging off his jacket. “It’s bloody cold out here. Come back inside, please, and talk to me.”
“Thanks,” I say as he drapes his jacket across my shoulders. He coaxes it tighter around my body. The familiarity of the gesture, its tenderness, makes my heart fold in on itself. “But I’m not going to stay. I’ve already texted Emily—she doesn’t live far—”
“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.” He moves to stand in front of me, close enough that his chest bumps against my crossed arms every time he draws a breath.
I stare at an invisible spot on his perfectly tailored shirt. I blink, hard. I feel horrible that I have to do this—that I have to leave him. Rhys has been selfish, sure, but he’s also been kind and generous to me. He is trying. Trying, in his own way, to take care of me. And I appreciate his effort, I do.
But being face-to-face with Monica Cruz tonight put the nail in the coffin. I remember that magazine I read the first night I was in Madrid. Monica looked happy on the cover; tonight, though, I discovered she is happy. Genuinely, infectiously happy, so at home in her own skin. She is fearless and confident and pursuing her dreams without a second thought about other peoples’ opinions.
Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3) Page 11