Rebounding (2 page)

THREE

Char

Two Years Later

“Listen up, baby girl. I’m gonna give you the best advice you’ve ever gotten. If a man breaks your heart, you need to fuck his best friend.”

It’s the first thing anyone has said in weeks that makes me smile. Months, if I’m being truthful.

A real, honest-to-goodness smile. Not the kind I feel forced to put on for show. Anyone with a pebble’s worth of emotional intelligence can see straight through that crap. No, this one is genuine, and I feel it warm me all the way down to my toes.

I can only imagine Miles’s expression if he thought I had sex with Wyatt—his very
gay
best friend. That would be priceless.

“Couldn’t take your advice if I tried, Luke. Miles’s best friend doesn’t exactly root for my team. You’re more in line with his type.”

“Is the BFF a football player too?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Is he single?”

My smile quickly fades into a frown. “You are not allowed to be a manwhore right now, Lucas Hart. You’re supposed to be consoling me.”

“Aw, come on Char, you and I both know you don’t need any consoling. You’re a queen. You don’t, nor will you ever, need a man to feel complete, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. D’you understand me?”

I put my car in park, switch my cell phone to the other ear, and then lean back into my seat. Out of everyone in the family, I thought Lucas would get it. He can relate the best; he’s been the black sheep since he hit puberty. Being born gay in a right-winged Southern dynasty can have that effect.

Sadly, Lucas has the same expectations of me as everyone else. They all think I’ll rebound flawlessly. They all think I’m made of steel. I can’t blame them really; I used to think so too.

But everyone forgets that Miles wasn’t just my boyfriend. Hell, we were practically the same person. Both overachievers. We grew up two streets apart from each other, went to the same schools, the same parties, had the same teachers, and shared the same hobbies and the same group of friends. We’ve been inseparable since we were thirteen years old. Miles was—is—a huge part of who I am. He was my
everything
. And overnight, he became my nothing.

Just like that.

It’s my fault for letting a guy become so much of what makes me happy—I get that—and I swear to God I’ll never let it happen again. Yet what kills me is how everyone expects me to put on a good face, to smile and continue with my efforts to change the world. I don’t feel like being that person anymore. I don’t feel like being anything anymore. Right now I just want to be invisible. If that means leaving everything and everyone I know behind, I’m okay with that.

“By the way, where are you, Charlotte?”

My insides begin to twist into knots; I can’t let anyone discover I’ve left this soon. “What do you mean where am I? Where do you think I am?”

Answering a question with a question. Classic evasive tactic. Hopefully he won’t see right through it.

“Mom said Vanessa called her last night to find out if you’d gone home. She claims you’ve been MIA for two days.”

“Oh geez,” I scoff. “I swear if I don’t answer every text that girl sends me, she freaks.”

“So you’re still in Gainesville?”

“Of course.” The lie rolls off my lips like I’m a pro. “Where else would I be?”

There’s a few seconds of panic-filled silence, but thankfully, he buys it. “All right, well let me know if you need anything. I’m only a short plane ride away.”

Actually, you’re a lot closer than you think.
“I know.”

“Talk to you later, Char.”

“Bye, Luke.”

Hanging up the phone gives me momentary relief. I hate having to lie like that, especially when I know my family will eventually find out. Although I’m only a few online classes short of getting my degree, they wouldn’t understand. They want to see me immerse myself in almost every aspect of campus life, with the sorority playing a huge role. I’m hoping to drag out their ignorance for as long as I can, because I’m not going back. Maybe I am running, but I feel like that chapter of my life is over. Or at least, I’m over it.

With that thought in mind, I grab my purse, pull out one of the mini bottles of cheap rosé I bought at the local liquor store, then twist off the cap. I stopped there to ask for directions earlier, frustrated after what seemed like hours of searching for Hidden Shore Lane. Aptly named, in my opinion.

“You looking for the Archer residence?” the clerk had asked.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“It’s the only house on the street. Bit of a historic landmark as well. Been there since the 1920s, I believe.”

Great. Old houses creep me out. Even Doll and Wes’s place at Kent House gives me the heebie-jeebies. There’s just something about them, and considering that I am determined to take up residence at the Archer house, this lent to the possibility of living amongst ghosts, which is still less frightening than going back to Gainesville. I’d take whatever I could get.

That’s when it hit me that I’m not going back. The Charlotte Hart that had reigned in her quiet university town is no more. All at once, I feel dizzy and nauseous.

I’m not going back.

Ever.

That part of my life is over.

My knees tremble, and I lean against the nearest shelf for support. Who am I, if I’m not Charlotte Hart, sorority president, editor of the school’s newspaper, outstanding member of the collegiate community, and Miles Cahill’s sexy but equally as driven and intelligent girlfriend?

Holy hell, who
am
I?

I reach for the nearest alcohol I can find—a pack of four mini wine bottles—and place them on the checkout counter.

“ID?”

Weakly, I hand it him. I’d only just turned twenty-one this year, that birthday being one of the last good memories I shared with Miles…

This breakdown should’ve happened weeks ago. Actually, this should’ve happened when Miles first told me he’d fallen in love with someone else. That kind of timing made sense. After all, he made sure to dig the knife in as deeply as he could, twisting apart my insides with the knowledge of how he’d been two-timing me with the one person I can safely classify as my archenemy: Gwendolyn Hubbard. Eck. Even her name makes me want to vomit.

I remember sitting there on my bed, listening to Miles’s unsteady voice as he tried to pour out a sincere apology. Strangely I didn’t cry. My first and only boyfriend of almost nine years tells me he’s leaving me because he’s in love with someone I’d gladly push off a cliff, and yet I don’t cry? Even to me, it doesn’t make sense.

All I can remember is the way my eyes gloss over the room, and how my heart slows down, coming to an unnaturally slow rhythm. Everything dims a few shades darker as if my mind wants to escape from what is happening. As if it’s saving me from that conversation.

After all those years together, I think Miles feels he owes me a damn seminar on our breakup. He keeps talking and explaining. Keeps trying to rationalize things. Keeps trying to justify it. Going on and on and on…matter of fact, I think
he’s
crying. I’m still not sure how he musters up that much emotion when all I could do is sit there and stare at him like a mentally deranged person. I just want him to shut the hell up. I want him to get out of my room. I want to scream at him to leave. But my throat, of course, chooses that moment to get lodged. All of my muscles shut down. I feel like I’ve been injected with a paralytic drug, the kind serial killers use on their victims right before torturing them to death. It certainly
feels
like torture.

How is it that I could sit there so quietly, outwardly appearing calm, and then choose to break down now, in some Godforsaken liquor store on the outskirts of Miami? Is this moment the final stamp on my former life? Is this the part where I either dive headfirst into the next chapter or slit my wrists and be done with it?

“Are you all right, miss?” the clerk asks me, drawing me out of my hazy state of mind. “Did you still want directions to the Archer house?”

Dimly, I nod, trying to pull it together so I could listen to the man. Thankfully, most of what he tells me absorbs. I feebly head back to my car, cradling my wine, somehow managing to get into my car to drive to Hidden Shore Lane.

Which leads me to this moment.

Here I am, no slit wrists (yet), at 4:30 p.m., parked outside the Archer house, praying to God my next chapter lies inside.

Now all I have to do is get out of the car.

Pushing the bottle of wine to my lips, I down most of it. Liquid courage is badly needed. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I try not to grimace at the stale aftertaste. It’s awful, but it’ll do the job.

I get out of the car, shutting the door behind me a little too forcefully. The air is thick and muggy; the hair close to my scalp is already starting to curl. When I came here for spring break two summers ago, I remember giving up on my straightener. The humidity simply doesn’t allow for polished tresses.

The Archer house stands at the end of the street behind a wall of overgrown shrubbery. It’s no wonder I had so much trouble finding the place. On either side there are bushy trees and vinery closely resembling a small jungle. When I open the gate, I’m surprised to find the front lawn has been cut, the hedges surrounding the house artfully manicured. The house itself looks like something out of a Tuscan travel brochure, vintage and charming. It’s bigger than I expected, two stories high with Grecian columns and a front porch that spans the length of the house. Definitely not your standard South Florida home.

A short-lived breeze passes over me, carrying a salty scent. According to my GPS, the beach is nearby. The sun beats down on me as I walk up the porch steps, making me sweat. Thankfully it doesn’t take long for someone to open the door.

“Can I help you?”

Or at least that’s what I’m assuming the guy asked me. I can barely hear him over the sound of his crunching. He wipes his hands on the sides of his jeans, still loudly chewing while he waits for me to answer. At first I think maybe I’ve got the wrong house, and I double check the numbers above the door.

“Um, yes. I’m looking for Max Archer. Does he live here?”

“Yeah.”

I release the breath I’m holding, relieved to know I’m at the right place. The guy at the door doesn’t leave to get Max though. He stares at me, his warm brown eyes assessing me from head to toe. After a few awkward moments, I say, “I’d like to speak to him, please.”

The guy swallows whatever he’s eating, and a few more seconds pass by. “He’s busy right now.” With that said, he shuts the door.

In. My. Face.

For a few seconds, I can’t move. I’m so dumbfounded, I actually can’t move a muscle. No one has
ever
been that rude to me before, and the whole scenario takes a while to kick in. As soon as my shock wears off, I press on the doorbell again, leaving my finger there so it continues to ring. Gritting my teeth, I think about what I’m going to say to that foul, gravelly-mouth jackass when he returns.

The door quickly swings open.

“How dare you—” I start, then stop when I realize I’m looking at a new face.

This time it’s a girl with orangey-brown hair and a sympathetic smile. “I’m
so
sorry about him,” she says. “We don’t get many visitors, and Trevor finds it amusing to mess with the few that do come around.”

She looks over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes at who I’m guessing is Trevor. Then she opens the door wider. “Come in,” she says, waving me toward her. I notice a Monroe piercing sparkling above the left side of her upper lip. “I’ll go get Max. He
is
, in fact, busy, but I’m sure I’ll be able to tear him away from his work long enough to talk to you. What did you say your name was?”

“Charlotte Hart,” I tell her as she shuts the door behind me. “I’m an old acquaint…” My voice drifts off as I’m taken over by the house’s scenery. I forget how annoyed I am, all tension leaving my body in one breath. “Wow,” I say, following that with a small whistle.

Nothing about the place is as ancient as it looks on the outside, but what’s stopped me has nothing to do with that. There’s a staircase across the foyer, and on both floors, the entire back wall is made up of floor to ceiling glass panels. Beyond the glass is the most incredible view of the ocean; it’s literally in the backyard, maybe a few hundred yards away.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” the orange-haired girl says.

“Breathtaking,” I agree, taking a few slow steps inside.

“This place was built around that view. At first, you could only enjoy it from the balconies, but the Archers remodeled the place around twenty or so years ago, replacing the walls with glass. Best decision ever, if you ask me.”

Yes. Yes, it was. I still can’t tear my eyes away from all the stunning white sand melting into the sparkling turquoise and blues. This place is like a little oasis tucked away from the rest of world. My desire to stay here has just intensified by a thousand.