Only In Dreams (Stubborn Love Series) (2 page)

THE HOURS TICK by, and just as I suspected I’ve been unable to sleep. I lay in our bed at first, my face growing hot with anger. Then I clean, but I hate cleaning, so that doesn’t last long. I think about calling Emmie around six o’clock, but that seems whiney and desperate. Not to mention the fact that I know most of what I tell Emmie she will tell Colin. If Colin knows Christian is getting wasted every night, it will start a huge fight between them, just giving him more ammo to use against me.

No, this is my problem, and I need to deal with it. By seven, I have come to the conclusion that maybe Christian isn’t taking me seriously. I am always happy to clean up his messes, and it seems that he is well aware of it. Maybe now what he needs is some tough love. Maybe he needs to know I’m not going to be taken for granted anymore.

I waffle on this decision for sometime—I’m not one for idle threats—and before I make the ultimatum, I need to be certain I’ll follow through. Poking my head into the guest bedroom one last time is all it takes. The room smells like a distillery. I realize now I love him enough to leave.

Packing my suitcase is harder than I thought it would be. I keep telling myself, he won’t let you leave, seeing your packed bags will be enough. Going through the drawers, one by one, folding up my favorite thrift store treasures or photo shoot take home items, my mind drifts to Emmie.

She was a wreck when I met her. She didn’t have any friends and was clearly suffering when it came to her fashion sense. I was the one who encouraged her to see how things would turn out with Colin. I was the example of happiness … wasn’t I? How did I end up here? I missed my last two modeling jobs because Christian needed one thing or another. Now my agent had warned me that the calls would stop coming if I didn’t start putting my best foot forward.

I gather the essential hair and makeup products I cannot live without and strategically place my suitcases against the wall, so that Christian will see them first thing when he wakes up. Then I wait, and wait, until I refuse to wait any longer.

Grabbing a wad of cash and my keys, I shove them into the pockets of my jumper and head to Ninth Street Espresso to grab a coffee. After a night of no sleep I need it, especially if I am going to have anything left in me for the shit storm that I know is going to happen when I get home. I keep having these moments where I think perhaps I’m overreacting, but as I recall the recent months, I quickly dismiss these notions.

“Hey Bill,” I grumble as I approach the counter.

“Paige, where’s Christian this fine morning?”

I debate how to answer. Christian and Colin are the owners of the space the coffee shop rents. While a huge part of me wants to unload on Bill and tell him exactly where Christian is, and exactly what my boyfriend can do to himself, I worry how this might affect their business relationship.

“Sleeping in.” I decide to play it safe.

“Boy, he’s got it rough, doesn’t he?” Bill laughs. I feign a smile as I watch him prepare my latte.

“New tat?” I inquire, trying not to think about my good-for-nothing sloth of a boyfriend who is still passed out at home.

“How can you possibly notice that? Besides my girlfriend, you’re the only one,” Bill marvels, handing me my cup. Bill has tattooed sleeves on both arms; it is something I always take notice of while he makes my drinks. I’ve always been fascinated with body art—tattoos being a permanent fashion statement.

I pull out the wad of bills from my pocket, even though I already know Bill is going to wave me off. “On the house,” he says.

I couldn’t explain it to him. I had been taking free coffee from this place for as long as I could remember. And until today it was merely one of the perks of dating an owner of the building, but now, it feels dirty. I am so angry at Christian, the free coffee perk has become an unimaginable sin.

“No, I insist, you always give me freebies. I think we should start a policy where I at least pay for one out of a hundred,” I joke, shoving the money further onto the counter.

“Your money is no good here, you know that,” Bill replies lifting his hands up into the air.

Grabbing the wadded up bills, I drop them into the tip jar and walk out, flashing a smile over my shoulder. Bill is nice; it is too bad his landlord is such a dick head.

The walk home is the longest walk I have ever taken. I’m more than fine if it takes me the rest of the morning to get home. But, even with dragging my feet, a short fifteen minutes later, here I am, staring at the front door of my building.

I really do love this place, the ivy has begun to climb across the brick, and I am so thrilled I convinced Colin not to cut it back. The window boxes are overflowing with the springtime flowers I recently planted. As I fiddle with the keys, small rays of sunshine filter through the leaves of the big oak tree that is bursting from the seams of the green space on the sidewalk.

This place is home—one of the few places in my life that I feel like nobody can take away from me. Now that Christian and I live together, we can never undo the choice. He owns the building, so if anyone is going to move out, it is going to be me.

I shake my head, trying to force the idea out of my mind. There is no way it is going to come to that, I remind myself. Even if I left for a few days, Christian will realize how miserable he is without me, and I will be back—back in his arms. And not the arms of the guy passed out in the guest room. I’ll be back with my Christian, the one I fell in love with as a teen.

I climb the stairs and enter the apartment. Looking around, I quickly realize Christian still isn’t awake. I huff and push the wild strands of hair out of my face. I’ve waited long enough. This needs to happen.

Stepping into the guest room, I clear my throat, loudly. Christian lay in the exact same position as the night before, clearly undisturbed by my presence. Angrily, I rush over to his oversized, beefy body and give him multiple shoves. “Wake up. You need to wake up, now!”

“Huh,” he says with a snort, wiping the drool gathering on his cheek with the back of his hand. “What’s going on?”

He seems startled. He lifts his eyes, and squinting, tries to block out the light more with his hand.

“We need to talk,” I say coolly.

I watch as he rolls his eyes and flops back down onto the bed, clearly disgusted I woke him. “Can’t this wait?” he moans.

“It has waited, all morning,” I reply firmly.

“Paige, I’m serious, I feel like shit.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“Jesus! I said not right now.”

“Don’t you dare raise your voice to me,” I command, completely in shock that he would have the nerve to talk to me that way after putting me through hell last night. “For all I knew you were dead last night.”

“I left my phone in Pete’s car,” Christian defends himself, not bothering to lift his head.

The answer does not appease me, only further infuriating me. “Pete Hannigan? The loser you said you were never going to see again, because all he does is hang out with a bunch of roadie losers at Kings and get drunk all the time? That Pete?”

“Yeah, that Pete!” Christian shouts, suddenly sitting up and glaring at me. I watch as he clutches his head, the sudden adjustment to his body and light obviously causing an intense pain. I’m not too ashamed to admit, I kind of feel he has it coming.

“What’s going on with you?” I beg, fighting the urge to rush up and start shaking him wildly.

“Nothing,” he grunts, standing and pushing past me to make his way into the bathroom. I walk into the living room, taking a seat on the chair that faces the door. He will have to look at me when he comes out. He will have to give me the answers I deserve.

I hear the flush, then a few seconds later he emerges from the doorway. He doesn’t look at me, though. He makes his way to the kitchen sink and sticks his head under the faucet. After a good soaking, he lifts up, and while dripping water all over the floor, proceeds to question, “Where are the migraine pills?”

“Basket on the top of the fridge,” I answer. I don’t even know why. I have all this anger and fight inside of me, but all of the sudden I feel incredibly overwhelmed with sadness. He really doesn’t care if I am upset. Perhaps I’ve been fooling myself about who he really is. As a girl I would watch my mom date these slime balls who would use her up until they were done and then throw her away. My stomach sinks as the idea I am exactly the same as her hits me.

“It’s like a fucking jackhammer in my skull,” he moans as he fidgets with the childproof cap, growing angrier.

I can’t explain exactly what clicks for me in that moment. I stand and glide into the kitchen casually, grabbing the bottle from his hands, and pop the lid off with ease. I deal out a dose, replace the lid, and turn to pick up my bags.

“Where are you going?” he asks, noticing the luggage for the first time.

“I’m leaving,” I say and make my way to the door, but before I can get there, he takes hold of my arm.

“Where? A job?” I can see it in his eyes. He knows what is happening as much as I do, but his voice almost sounds hopeful it really is just a modeling job.

“Yeah,” I reply. I don’t intend on taking the job in Paris, but when he asks me the question, the reply just slips out.

“When will you be back?” he inquires, his eyes shifting from my bags and then to my face repeatedly.

“I’m not coming back,” I answer, a sigh of relief passing my lips. This isn’t at all how I had expected the talk to go. I planned to complain and tell him how miserable I am. I would demand he change, or I would move out. But standing at the door, this isn’t the tone at all. Christian is the kind of broken that I can’t fix—he needs to fix himself.

“What the hell do you mean?” He is clearly becoming agitated very quickly.

“You know this has been coming for a long time. You need help, and I hope you get it, but I can’t sit here and watch you self-destruct. I love you too much for that. I can feel the rush of emotions building up, but I know this goodbye can’t be emotional, or it will scar both of us more than we can handle.

“Are you fucking kidding me? I party too hard with the boys, I don’t check in, and you’re done.”

“I—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Paige. I’m sick of the drama. Get out then, if you’re leaving, just leave,” Christian snaps before turning his back to me.

I’ve never felt two such conflicting emotions at the same time. Part of me can see he is hurting. I want to scoop him up into my arms, pull him in close, and make it better. But then there is another part of me that loud and clear is telling myself, you deserve more than your mom and dad, you deserve more than him.

And then it happens, I says the words, “Goodbye, Christian.” The door closes behind me, my first love on one side, the rest of my life on the other.

Four Years Later ...

I SIT IN the limo for a moment longer. The quietness consumes me. There is peace in the moment I have not experienced in days. With all of the hustle and bustle of getting ready for the wedding, the last week has been a haze of meetings with the planner, caterer, DJ, along with countless others. I really can’t understand why little girls dream of this day their entire lives. It seems like a terrible amount of work to simply declare to the public your plan to commit to one person for the rest of your life.

And then there is that thought. Committing to one person for the rest of your life. It never has seemed natural to me. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m promiscuous or anything. I can count the number of serious relationships I’ve had on one hand. When I find a guy, I don’t mind committing, but for life?

“Miss, would you like me to get the door for you?” the handsome, young, and slightly rounded driver asks me.

I shake my head and quickly respond, “Oh, no, I’m fine.” Pushing all the air from my lungs, I pull the lever and push open the heavy door, stepping out of my sanctuary.

Clementine spots me in what must be record time; I can only assume she was waiting for me. She waves her hands wildly, beckoning me. I’m not sure what I would do without her. When Emmie came to New York all those years ago, I never would have imagined that stranger I shared a taxi cab with would later become my best, and as it would seem, sometimes only, friend.

Walking in her direction, toward the front doors of the chapel, I glance over my shoulder. Traffic is whizzing by, people are living their lives, with no clue what is happening to me on this day.

“Will you hurry up?” Emmie yells, holding the large wooden door open. “Guests will be arriving soon, and we can’t let them see you.”

I wonder why that is. I mean, really, if my guests see me before I walk down the isle, will it rip a hole in the space-time continuum? Why does is matter? I lower my head, staring at my sandal-clad feet as I approach.

“Are you all right?” Emmie asks. Leave it to her to always recognize when something is bothering me.

“Yeah, I’m fine, the hair dresser just took way longer than expected. I guess I’m just tired,” I lie. Or maybe I’m not lying. I don’t really know what’s wrong with me. I simply feel sad. Do all brides feel this way on their wedding day? Maybe it’s something that fades as soon as you see your groom waiting for you. I’m sure that’s it. At least that’s what I tell myself.