Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 52440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
One day, I'm too fat. The next, I look like I've lost weight, and I'm no longer an advocate for body positivity. It's exhausting. Hell, everything about this is exhausting. But with my hair and makeup done, you can't even tell that I've barely slept all week.
My manager, Olive Mumsen, has me burning the candle at both ends. When I'm not on stage, I'm in the studio. When I'm not in the studio, I'm doing interviews, photoshoots, or one of the nine thousand other things that come with being a pop star. The list is never-ending.
I can't remember the last time I had a day off. I don't mind so much, though. The more I have to do, the less time I have to think. Thinking hasn't ever been kind to me. Not since…well, that doesn't matter. The point is I stay busy, and I prefer it that way. Even when it's exhausting.
"Do you know what you're opening with yet?" my sister asks, pinning a wayward strand of hair down with a bobby pin.
"We're doing Getaway first."
Her lips compress into a line. "I hate that song."
"So you've said. Loudly and often," I tease her.
She doesn't laugh. Instead, her hazel eyes search mine. "It's about Teo."
My heart trembles at the mention of his name…just like it always does. It's been six years, and my damn heart still aches every single time someone mentions him to me. Hearing his name hurts far more than it should. Thinking about him hurts more than I'd like to admit. I should be over him by now. He's not even the same boy I knew.
Back then, he was sweet and loving. He was gentle. The man people talk about now—the one who gets into fights on and off the field, drinks heavily and has his face splashed all over the news—well, I don't even know that man. He's a stranger wearing my former best friend's face.
And yet, I've never been able to move on from the boy he used to be, either. I still dream about him. I still miss him. And I'm still mad as hell. Part of me—a big part—believes he chose football over me and just didn't have the nerve to tell me. Had he said that was his choice, I could respect it. But he didn't say that. He tried to act like he was doing it for me, like leaving me behind was for my own good.
He left me and claimed he did it for me. You don't quit on people you love. But he quit on me. Before he ever gave us a chance, he ran. And I just had to accept it. He didn't even tell me until he'd already made his choice. There was no changing his mind. There was no talking it out. He just…left. After seventeen years by my side, he walked away like it was so freaking easy for him.
And when I needed him most, he didn't even care enough to show up. I was drowning, and the only person I needed couldn't even pick up the phone. That's the part I can't forgive or forget.
I was never his first choice. I was just something to do until he had better options. As soon as they materialized, he dropped me and never looked back. I should be over that. I should be over him. I hate that I'm not.
"He got into another fight during his game tonight," Zoya says quietly.
"Don't," I warn her. "I don't want to hear it."
"Nadia, you can't ignore his existence forever."
"Just stop," I growl, spinning away from her. "Why can't you guys ever just leave it alone? This is why I never come home. Every single time I do, all I hear about is him!"
"That's not true," she says quietly.
"Yeah, it is." If it's not her talking about him, it's Mom and Dad, or Innessa, or his parents and siblings. He's freaking everywhere back home, steeped in every memory I have of the place. He haunts me. At least here, he isn't everywhere I look. At least, he wasn't until a few months ago when he was traded to the Sabres.
Now, my safe place feels a lot less safe. Los Angeles is plenty big enough for the both of us, but it feels miniscule with his face all over the place.
I'm mad as hell about it.
"If you came to talk about him, you can go," I mutter to my sister.
"You know that isn't why I came. I came because I miss you," she says.
The hurt in her voice makes me feel like a jerk. Hell, maybe I am one. I've been hurting the people I love for years, all because I can't move on from the boy I loved. It's messed up. I'm messed up. And I can't even blame him for that because I did it to myself.