Chapter 91

The One With A Sign

A R I E L L E

Standing there on the platform, I do the job I’ve grown to know. At this point, this is my fourth show and it’s not as bad as the first one was. Nadia’s advice really helped me to take this job for what it’s worth.

I’ll admit, I still don’t see myself doing this long term. There are aspects of it that remain bothersome to me and I haven’t exactly gotten over them. Instead, I’ve been pretending as if they don’t annoy me.

There are three facets of modelling at these expos that I’ve enjoyed so far, though. The first of which is the money. Although I’ve never struggled with money, it’s still extremely nice to have those extra funds. It gives me a bit more purpose to be able to save up something extra, in case I need it at some point in the future. I’ve actually been thinking about going away somewhere when my mental health is a bit better, simply because I think I deserve it.

Second, it’s been nice to have some sort of schedule. Hayes was right about that. Even though he advised that it could do the opposite—and actually do bad—I’ve been finding that it’s been helping me. At least, I believe it to. It might seem ridiculous, but it helps me routinely shower, eat, and converse with humans other than Chase, James, and Zara.

Lastly, I’ve enjoyed getting to know both Nadia and Jin. I find hanging out with them to bring me a sense of comfort that I’ve begun to crave. It’s oddly normal being with them and they make me laugh in moments of stress, which I appreciate. They both seem to be super nice and they’re fun.

As Jin and I model together—with Jin sitting in the driver’s seat and me standing alongside the car—I glance out at the growing crowd. When I find the back of a man with thick black hair, tanned skin, and tattoos littering the backs of his arms, my heart sinks in my chest. He twists and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Nate.

In a panic, I lift the skirt to my dress and begin to run to him. I suddenly feel like I’m going to throw up, or pass out—I don’t fucking know. All I do know is the world has melted around me and I can’t focus on anything other than the man standing across the room.

A woman approaches him—visibly late in pregnancy—and I see the motion of him cradling her belly. She cuddles into his side and that’s when he turns so I’m better able to make out his facial features.

It isn’t Nate. It’s just some stranger who happens to faintly look like him.

Of course it isn’t him, he’s fucking dead.

The man—who has deep, dark brown, nearly black eyes and a tattoo-less neck—lights up as he tells some other guests of his partners’ pregnancy and I literally crumble to the floor in the middle of the event.

It feels so fucking cruel to see a man who my mind tricked me into thinking was Nate, in love and enamoured with the idea of his child. It was merely weeks ago when I worried I might have been pregnant with Nate ‘s child.

I fucking breathed a sigh of relief when I found out I wasn’t.

What the fuck is wrong with me? How could I have been so happy about the loss of a life that I would cherish so dearly now? How could I have been so damn selfish? If I’d really been pregnant, I would’ve been carrying Nate ‘s child and I would’ve had a piece of him to linger on with me. A little boy or girl, with his big beautiful eyes and his soft hair.

The idea absolutely fucking tears me to shreds.

When I feel something—someone—grabbing my arm, I don’t even fight it. I don’t have it in me. I can feel dozens of eyes on me because I’m still collapsed to the floor. Despite being torn in two, no tears fall from my eyes and I honestly think it’s because I don’t have any left.

I’m simply along for the ride as whoever it is drags me past the spectators and into the back room. Eventually, I’m set down in a plush-feeling chair, but my mind is still in shock. Like my soul left my body the moment I realized and accepted the truth of what I was seeing.

I try not to think about a child with Nate ‘s likeness. Seriously, I fucking try. But images of a tiny hand wrapped delicately around his tattooed finger flood my brain and my chest begins to ache.

I cradle my belly, as if there’s any hope that the doctor was wrong. I know they weren’t, but my mind seems to want to play sick jokes on me.

Deep down, I know that I don’t want children at this particular time in my life—that I’m not ready for them—but I’m so desperate to connect to him, I’ll do just about anything.

I keep seeing Nate everywhere I go. It’s been weeks of catching random whiffs of his cologne. Of hearing cars whose exhaust sound just like his. Of swearing that I feel the faintest touch that my mind thinks is him, but it’s just a whisper of wind.

It’s fucking cruel and I wish I could shut my mind off.

When I finally come to—after how long, I really can’t be sure—I find Nadia staring at me, concerned, while Jin is holding out a paper cup with some water in it. I take the drink, carefully lifting it up to my mouth with my hands that still shake.

My chest remains heaving, as if I’ve just run a marathon and I’m positive they both can see my throat as it jogs through a hard swallow. Nadia pulls up a chair as I sip on some more water, doing my best to calm my breathing because I can see it on her face—she’s about to pry.

“Before, when you told me that things were complicated, I dropped it—we both dropped it—but I have to ask. This isn’t normal.” She pauses, her eyebrows furrowing even closer together. “What is going on with you?”

I start to speak, but my voice is so hoarse that I’m inaudible. After clearing my throat, I explain in the simplest way I can, “My boyfriend was murdered.”

They both visibly wince. Nadia gasps lightly. Jin takes a step back, cursing under his breath.