“I just…wanted to…” He’s struggling. It’s hard to see, but it gives me that stupid hope again.
He rubs a hand over his hair as he blows out a breath. “I just wanted to say the garage feels empty without you.”
Then, he’s gone, getting in Owen’s car, and they’re driving away.
I watch the blink of the car lights disappearing into the traffic.
Steadying myself with a hand on my car, I breathe in deep, sucking back tears.
I unlock my car and get inside. I turn the ignition, the radio coming in midst of Beyoncé’s soulful voice saying that she’s “Scared of Lonely.”
And I break down.
It takes me fifteen minutes before I can compose myself enough to be able to drive home.
“Bridget Jones OR The Holiday?”
I stare at the DVD cases in my mum’s hands, not really feeling like watching either. I’m not exactly in the mood for a chick flick. I’ve apparently been in an “arse of a mood”—quoting my mum there—for the last few days…since I saw Carrick basically. I think these movies are her way of getting back at me.
Fingering my necklace, I say, “Cars.”
“Bridget Jones it is.” She gives me a saccharine smile.
My mum’s not exactly a fan of Cars. I think I’ve driven her mad with it over the years.
Turning from me, she puts the disc in the player.
“I got some treats,” she says before leaving the living room. She reappears a minute later with her hands behind her back. “When I was in town earlier, I went to that store that sells English food, and you’ll never guess what they had.” Her face is all lit up.
“Alcohol?” That’s just my wishful thinking that she bought me some.
My mum’s not really a big drinker, and she rarely drinks at home. But I could really do with a drown-my-sorrows beer right about now.
“English chocolate!” She pulls out from behind her back a big bar of Cadbury Dairy Milk and an even bigger bar of Galaxy.
Jesus Christ.
Carrick’s chocolate.
I have to stop myself from bursting into tears.
Of all the chocolate in the whole of fucking Brazil that she could have bought, she buys his chocolate—not that she knows it’s his chocolate. Still, it’s like the gods have it in for me or something.
“I know how much you hate Brazilian chocolate since it’s too bitter and how you miss chocolate from England, so I thought this might cheer you up.”
“Thanks,” I manage to get out. Flopping back on the sofa, letting my depression spread over me, I throw an arm over my face and sprawl out, my long legs taking up all the space.
On a tut, Mum lifts my legs. I move my arm from my face to see her sitting down, my legs still in her hands. Once she’s seated, she puts my legs on her lap.
“Smile, darling. I hate seeing you so sad.”
“I’m smiling.” I force one showing way too much teeth.
She gives me a sad look but doesn’t push on it. “Which one would you like?”
She holds up both bars of chocolate, unaware of my internal turmoil over that chocolate, which is raging on like a bitch.
And because I’m a masochist and I really feel like torturing myself, I take the Galaxy.
I try not to cry when I snap off a piece and put it in my mouth.
As soon as the chocolate hits my tongue, all I can think of is the last time Carrick kissed me. It was before his race in Singapore, and I could taste the chocolate on his tongue.
And now, all I can think about is how it felt to be kissed by him, to have him make love to me.
My body starts to ache for him. And I’ve got this pain in my chest, like someone’s standing on it.
Will this pain of missing him ever go away?
“No.”
What? Did I say that out loud?
I flash a glance at my mum, but she’s looking at her phone.
She sees me staring. “Sorry, darling. Your Aunt Clara wants to borrow a pair of my earrings again. But I’m telling her no as I didn’t get the last pair back. She went out, got drunk, and lost them!” she exclaims.
That makes me laugh, and I giggle at the thought of Aunt Clara drunk.
The doorbell rings.
We both look at each other.
“You expecting anyone?” Mum asks.
“Nope.”
“I wonder who is calling at this hour.”
Could it be Carrick?
My heart lifts and then deflates just as quickly when I realize I’m being stupid. He doesn’t know where I live, for starters, and it’s not like he has a reason to come see me. It’s been two days since I bumped into him outside his hotel and nothing. If he wanted to see me, he would have come by now.
“It’s only seven o’clock, Mum.” I chuckle. “And we won’t find out unless you answer the door.”
“Guess I’m answering the door then.” She gives me a look. Using the remote, she pauses the DVD, lifts my legs off her, and gets up from the sofa.
“Look through the peephole before you open the door,” I call after her.
I don’t want her to open the door to an ax murderer. But then, that might not actually be a bad thing. He could put me out of my misery.
I listen for voices to see who it is. I can hear low murmuring but nothing I can make out.
I’m just about to get up from the sofa when Mum comes back in the living room.
“You have a visitor.” She moves aside to reveal Owen Ryan standing behind her.
“Owen—Mr. Ryan, what are you doing here?” Scrambling to sit up, I touch a hand to my hair, well aware of the mess I am. I can’t remember the last time I showered, my hair is tied in a messy knot, and I’m wearing my Still Plays with Cars ratty old pajamas.