Lose Me: (New Adult Billionaire Romance) (Broken Idols)

by M. C. Frank

  Wes had come to pick me up from the pool where I was doing laps with Coach.

  I remember that day. It was three days before the end. I remember lifting my head as I was climbing out of the water, my eyes meeting his, his golden head illuminated by the sun setting behind him in a pink sky.

  “Hey,” he said, coming over to crouch by the poolside. He removed his sunglasses with a blinding smile.

  “Hey,” I answered back, completely intimidated by his very presence. “Done for today?”

  “I’m all yours,” he answered me with a wink, bracing one hand against the blue tiles and reaching out the other to lift me from the water. He insisted that I not change out of my swimming suit. “You. . . you’ve kinda whet my appetite for a swim,” he said, looking at his shoes, all pretend shyness.

  “Wes. . . ” I fake-whined. “I’ve been in the water all day.”

  “So yes?”

  Next thing I knew (in the dream), we were diving into the dark waters of Paxi.

  In reality, he’d taken me to the L&H, and we’d sailed all the way to the southern part of Corfu, and from there to the tiny island of Paxi. As the sun came down, we’d thrown anchor in the middle of the sea, struggling to see the coast in the gathering darkness.

  I remember standing on the hull and looking down to the inky waters, tugging at the long sleeves of my sweater. Wes had already stripped down to his swimming trunks, but now he looked down to my shorts and saw that my legs were covered in goose bumps.

  The heat of the day had fled with the dwindling light and the air was cooling rapidly.

  “I didn’t think. . . ” Wes had said, frowning. “Maybe it’s too chilly for a swim. Wouldn’t want you to catch cold on me.”

  I shivered at the way he said ‘on me’, and turned around so that he wouldn’t notice. I quickly shrugged off my clothes, before the cold would penetrate my skin.

  “Last one in is a total twit!” I yelled and dove.

  The water was warmer than the air, as my body slid into its depths. We surfaced next to each other in deep water. The sky was so dark by now I could hardly see in front of me. But before I had time to search for him, Wes was there, his hands cupping my neck, his thighs wrapped around me, supporting me so I was raised half-way above the water, his lips on mine.

  “Who’s a total twit now,” he’d whispered huskily into my wet neck.

  DON’T CRY, ARI. DON’T YOU DARE CRY.

  I remember every little detail of that day, but I won’t write it all here, I can’t, it’s too painful. Let’s just say that when we finally made it to shore we were both breathless and exhausted.

  There was a cave opening in about a hundred meters, so we swam over and got out of the water. The darkness was so thick inside, I couldn’t even see where to place my foot.

  “Wait, I got this,” Wes said, keeping a hand on my back.

  He had brought a little waterproof torch in the pocket of his trunks, and he turned it on. The light bounced off the surface of the water, reflected on the shiny walls of the cave. Wes apologized for not having a towel, and pressed up close to me, rubbing my arms, pretending to warm them.

  Only pretending, of course, because we were both panting, our breaths echoing in the coolness of the cave. We weren’t cold anymore—how could we be? My entire body was on fire, I bet his was too.

  We sat at the edge of the water, the waves rushing in and out under our toes, cooling our hot skin. Wes started throwing pebbles in, and I tried to judge by sound how many splashes they made. There was no one around for miles. The water was inky black by now, the stars a blanket overhead, beyond the opening of the cave, and although our eyes had adjusted to the dark enough so that we could discern each other’s silhouettes, we couldn’t see a thing beyond our noses.

  “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been to a more peaceful, beautiful place,” he said, gazing at the water. “How many times have you been here?”

  “To Paxi? I don’t know. Nearly every summer, I suppose. This cave? Never.”

  “What?” His voice was squeaky. He couldn’t believe I’d never been there before.

  “It’s only accessible by boat, you twit,” I replied. “And I’m not exactly a billionaire, you know.”

  “Ouch. I taught you that word, didn’t I? Serves me right.” He was silent for a bit. “I can almost imagine you here as a kid,” he spoke in a dreamy voice, his eyes on my face. “Growing up like a mermaid in this perpetual summer, brown as a nut from the sun.”

  “Who you calling a nut?” I said.

  “I wish I knew you then,” he went on. “I wish I had grown up here with you, with your dad and pappou and yiayia and the sunshine. . . I wish—” his voice caught and I wrapped my arm around his shoulders.

  “I wish that too,” I said softly, and he pressed his lips to my temple so hard it almost hurt. “On the other hand,” I went on in a second, “if I had watched you grow up, being an ass to girls in first grade, or pimply in middle school. . . . grabbing your first cigarette behind the toilets, along with your first kiss. . . maybe I wouldn’t have thought you were so cool anymore.”

  He burst out laughing and the cave around us filled with the sound. When he stopped laughing, he bent his head to mine, so that I could see the earnestness shining in his eyes.

  “There would have been no other girls if you had been around from the beginning,” he said in a whisper, lifting a strand of wet hair and tucking it behind my ear. “And I wouldn’t have been an ass to you, I swear. Not you.”

  A moment later, in reality, as soon as he saw my teeth chattering from the cold, he bodily picked me up and ran into the water. I swatted his arms away and we raced each other back to the yacht. I let him win this time.

  We dropped anchor in the marina of Lefkimi, while we showered and changed, and we went to a little taverna to eat, before returning to town again.

  In my dream however, things ended differently.

  In my dream, directly after we’d suddenly found ourselves on the yacht, he’d said some more deliciously dirty things—which I’d never heard him say in real life, and if I had, frankly I would have thought them ridiculous. Well, in the dream somehow they worked. Boy did they work.

  Anyway, moving on. After we were done with that whole weird (but hot) thing, we dove in.

  Only, as soon as we were in the water, I started sinking again, my body suspended in pain. It was just like that last day by the Rubble. I was drowning right next to him.

  I went under and Wes dove after me, but I sank deeper and deeper into the inky water. I kept trying to kick towards the surface, towards Wes’ frantic eyes, but a force was dragging me downwards. I couldn’t breathe, my lungs were burning. And Wes, refusing to let go of my hand, was dying along with me.

  The last thing I saw (in the dream) were his green eyes, open and lifeless, a bubble of water escaping his lips and his fingers clasped white around mine.

  Then I woke up.

  Day Five

  I called Katia very early this morning. I tried to give her a brief description of what has been happening all month between me and Wes, and she was really cool and understanding, although I could hear it in her voice she was a bit hurt, too.

  “I’m so sorry for not telling you,” I whispered into the phone. “I felt so guilty all this time.”

  “It’s okay,” she replied. “I’m just mad that you had to go through all this alone, that I couldn’t be there for you. . . ” Her voice trailed off into silence. Outside the window all was dark and calm, no sign of the dawn just yet. My head felt dull, as though it was filled with cotton.

  “I was stupid enough not to tell anyone until pretty much the last moment,” I told her. I hadn’t turned the camera on, I still wasn’t ready for her to see me like this. “But I wasn’t alone. I had grandpa and dad and. . . Wes.” My voice broke.

  “Oh, Ari,” Katia said, and her voice sounded hoarse. “Was it. . . good with him? Before everything happened?”

  Ha. Was it good? How
to even begin to. . .

  “He saved my life,” I said simply. “Twice. Have I told you that? That’s how we met. And that’s how we parted, in the end.”

  “Ari, you sound sad. Really sad. As though you’re wishing he hadn’t,” she said. Waited. “Do you?”

  “Of course not. ”

  How does she do it? How does she find the exact thing to say that will pierce me like the knife? She just gets it. Every freaking time.

  “Okay, sometimes I wish it hadn’t been him,” I admitted, feeling ashamed. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I mean, sure the tumor was benign and everything, but all I can think about is when it will start getting big again, and try to kill me.”

  “It’s too soon to have gotten over your fear,” she told me eventually. “After all you. . . you must have been scared all this time, maybe not even realizing how much you were dreading that something bad would happen.” I scoffed, but she kept talking. “Give yourself time.”

  “You’re my therapist, you know that?” I said and she chuckled. “Will I always be this scared from now on?” I murmured into the phone.

  She didn’t answer.

  “I’m so embarrassed about what I did to Wes,” I went on, aching at the familiar way his name rolled off my tongue. “Embarrassed and scared. I. . . I haven’t even spoken to him since. He’s had enough drama for a lifetime. Saving lives, rushing to hospitals. I don’t know what I was thinking, bringing him into this. I just. . . I want him out of this.”

  “Does he—” Katia stopped to clear her throat. “Do you think he’ll be hurt by you not calling him?” she asked, and because it was her, I didn’t mind the question. If it had come from anyone else, I would bristle. But now all I could feel was emptiness.

  “Well, we knew each other all of three weeks,” I said. “That’s so little. So soon. . . We weren’t in a relationship or anything. And who can be sure, after everything, that it would go much beyond that, anyway?”

  “It didn’t sound like a three-week thing,” Katia replied.

  “He won’t mind. He’s Weston Spencer.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Do I believe that he won’t care? Of course I don’t.

  It’s night-time again, but for once I’m not sleepy. Now that’s what I call an improvement. I’ve been thinking all day about turning my phone on and calling Wes, but then I would always remember something stupid I did to him and I’d change my mind.

  Or something stupid I did to my dad, like lying to him all summer. Or to grandpa and grandma. Or how irresponsible I was, swimming and diving and surfing and driving around while at any given time the bomb in my head might go off.

  I’ve realized that I was in denial this whole time—textbook denial—and had sort of persuaded myself that as long as I pretended everything was all right, and threw myself into doing stunts, then nothing bad would happen.

  Still, that’s no excuse.

  I could have put so many people in danger.

  Not counting traumatizing everyone who watched me nearly die a couple of times.

  And Wes. Gosh, I couldn’t face him.

  I owe him an apology. And an explanation. I owe him so much.

  Plus, I owe him my life. How am I walking away from that? Am I walking away from it? It seems so easy, now that there’s already an ocean between us, to just let go. Not to pick up the phone, not to call, not to talk to him. To let time and space flow between us, until. . . Until what? Until I’m better? Until I’m my old self again? Until I’m no longer ashamed and scared and weak?

  Who knows how long that will take, though. . . Wouldn’t it be more fair to him to let him go?

  Dammit, I can’t believe I’m even thinking about it. It might have just been three weeks—only one of which we actually spent together—but. . . that was the most important week of my life. I faced death with this guy by my side. I already miss him so much it hurts.

  But when I even think about picking up the phone, I’m paralyzed. It takes me back to how I was. And I can’t face that. Not now. Not yet. Whether I like it or not, he’s part of what happened to me. He’s in it. He’s in the memories, in the pain. And I can’t get rid of them. They’re like the second tumor that the doctors didn’t remove.

  Aaaargh, I’m going crazy here.

  I’ll just stop thinking about it for a second, I’m already getting a headache, Jamie won’t be happy with me.

  Let’s write about what happened today instead. It’s not like I’ve got to do anything else, anyway.

  I spent the day with Ollie.

  His face looked pale and drawn, and he didn’t talk much (at first). We watched TV for about an hour, chancing upon Anna’s vampire show. Ollie insisted all the girls love it and I hated it, but it had some sick stunts, so I focused on how the hell they did those.

  I put the TV on mute as a blonde teenaged vampire was getting ready to drink from her human dad’s neck—only he wasn’t human, as we’d seen in the last scene, he was a werewolf, whose blood would kill her once she ate him. Deep. I turned to him.

  “Okay, what’s up with you?” I asked him. “You’re brooding.”

  “I’m not,” he replied, looking straight ahead.

  “You could give that vampire Count a run for his money,” I retorted and he said ‘pfft’. “So, spill. What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. It’s depressing in here. Wanna go out?” He got up and paced around my bed. “Although for that you probably should get dressed.”

  Was that a dig to how I’d gotten used to stay in my pj’s all day? Fine, I’d show him.

  “Just give me a sec,” I said. “Meet you out back?”

  So he got out and I got out of my pajamas and into my sweats and a light blue beanie he bought me yesterday, stealing a glance at the mirror. I almost had a heart attack.

  The only thing I recognized were my eyes. Or, to be more specific, the color of my eyes. It was exactly the same as always.

  As for the rest, it belonged to a stranger.

  A bare head, all angles and bones, cheekbones pronounced, huge eyes staring back at me in terror. I mean, not just fear. I look terrified. My lips look too wide for my face, and ready to cry. And scared, of course. Everything on me looks scared.

  Get a grip, I told myself.

  Then I noticed how red and puffed up my eyelids looked from last night’s crying spree and, disgusted with myself, I pulled the beanie as low as I could over my forehead. Good. Now at least I looked angry and scared, instead of just scared.

  Much better.

  As soon as I walked through the sliding doors of the hospital, Ollie strode to me across the wide, park-like area, and pushed up the rim of my hat so that it wouldn’t cover my forehead entirely.

  “Where are your gloves?” he asked me.

  By the way, it’s cold here, wearing-gloves cold. We’re not in Corfu anymore. Home seems so far away, like a dream I once had.

  “I’m not a grandma, that’s where they are,” I replied, snorting. “So now are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, instead of answering. “And before you lie again, let me tell you that you look like crap.”

  “Thanks!” I kicked him in the shin.

  “I mean, you look as though you’re feeling like crap.”

  “I am,” I shrugged.

  We started walking towards this massive green area, our shoes sinking in the soft grass. A fountain was splashing along to our left and a few birds were crowing overhead in the gray-blue sky. Wooden benches were scattered around, and a few patients were walking slowly along, some of them dragging drips or wearing medical masks. It felt pretty peaceful—as long as you forget this is a freaking hospital.

  “Aren’t you happy?” Ollie stopped in his tracks and turned to me. I gaped, taken aback. He sounded. . . kinda mad. “I mean, you’re alive, you’re fine, you’ll be released in five days, at most. What’s there to cry about?�
��

  “You think I’m ungrateful.” I realized.

  “No, no, no, I don’t.” The frustration left his face as quickly as it had come. He pulled me in for a hug, and I think I may have tensed at first a little, not being used to it, but soon enough I leaned against him, letting his warmth envelope me. “I was just so so scared, you have no idea. You—you nearly died on us, Ari. I don’t think I’ll ever get over that. And every time I look at you since, you’re a miracle. Alive and breathing. A miracle on two feet.”

  I laughed, but his eyes were serious.

  “I know,” I told him.

  “So what is it? Your dad, he’s been worried out of his mind about you, he’s convinced there’s something wrong with your head. But I spoke to the doctors, I spoke to everyone in this place, and they all agree, you’re pretty damn fine. Why don’t you feel it?”

  “I’m. . . I’m. . . ” I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs to speak.

  “What?” Ollie asked more gently. We sat down on a bench overlooking the street. I swallowed, playing with the cord of his jacket.

  I opened my mouth and, without warning, everything poured out of me, so quickly, in a flood of words that barely made sense.

  “I’m scared!” I almost yelled it, springing to my feet. Ollie turned to me, a look of surprise in his eyes. “I’m so tired of being scared all the time, of expecting something horrible to happen at any moment. When I stub my foot and pain shoots up my leg, when my head starts aching even a tiny little bit, when they put food in front of me and I can’t eat it. . . and every other little thing, every damned thing that I used to take for granted. . . the first thing that comes to mind immediately is, is this it? Am I sick again? Does this mean I’m still dying? If I paid too little attention before, I should pay more now, right? Only, it’s driving me crazy!”

  I sat back down, exhausted by my outburst, and Ollie stayed silent for a couple of minutes. The silence began to weigh heavily between us, and from the corner of my eye I could see his jaw working. He sighed and stretched his long legs in front of him, burying his hand in his hair.