Mr.Right

Chapter 35.

Maverick didn't come back to the villa that night neither did he answer his phone calls.

I wait up for him, thinking he'll come in late and was working things out with his mom but give up when

the time strikes Two in the midnight.

Maybe it's just a figment of my imagination, maybe it's real but I feel someone place a soft kiss on my

lips when I fall asleep but was too tired from crying to open my eyes.

I jolt up from the bed the next morning, thinking yesterday was a nightmare, and reality dawns on me

when I look at the space beside me on the bed and find it empty. Even the room feels empty.

His traveler's bag that was once resting at one side of the room is no longer there and neither is any of

his other properties.

He left already.

Knowing he's probably on his flight back to Minneapolis, I rush out of bed to get ready to leave for the

airport. We'll sort things out when I get home, I know we will.

I leave the house keys to the caretaker of the villa. A cap is worn on my head to prevent her from

seeing my blood-red eye as I flag down a cab to the airport.

The flight was lonely and sad. I have no idea what's going to happen when I get back to the penthouse

but whatever it is, I'm not ready for it. What he's going to say, how I'm going to react, I'm scared of it.

I should've known something like this was bound to happen. It's like I'm forbidden to be happy for a

long period of time. Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.

Maverick still doesn't pick up his calls when I get to Minneapolis and keeps going straight to voicemail.

The situation is worsened as I find out he didn't come to the penthouse either. His room shows no sign

of him plus everywhere is looking dark and deserted, just like my soul at the moment.

A headache slices through my skull and I feel dizzy for a second, concluding a shower would do me

good right now.

It doesn't.

Two sleepless nights later, there's still no sign of him and it's already beginning to get to my head. The

first person I would've run to is Jim but he needs a break from me, a break from my drama. I would not

be a part of his responsibility anymore and I need to handle my own mess on my own this time.

My phone rings in the middle of the night on one of my sleepless nights and I dive for my phone,

hoping it's from one person but I'm disappointed when I see Jim appear on the caller ID.

"You didn't tell me you're back from France, your location shows you're in town. How was it? Did you

have fun?"

"A lot of fun. You should go there sometime," I try to sound as lively as possible so he won't suspect a

thing. The call goes on a bit longer when he begins to tell me about a client at work. He throws in jokes

into the story at some point and I have to force myself to laugh even if all I want to do right now is far

from laughing.

You know when sadness hits you and it sort of fills your chest? You can breathe but it's sort of shaky

and maybe your vision goes a little blurry from tears that are threatening to fall— but you aren't just

letting them? It's a strong and heavy feeling, something that I can't really explain.

The next morning, I fall back into the old style of letting my sadness out. Kickboxing.

I start out slowly at first but when Maverick's face keeps flashing pictures in my head, his smile, the first

day I came to the penthouse, the day I finally spoke to him on the staircase, when he agreed to help

me with my stupid plan... the moment I figured I was falling for him, when we first made love in his

bedroom, and down to the scene at that restaurant in France— my sadness hits a whole new level as I

punch the leather bag like my life depends on it, I punch it till my knuckles turn red and bleed.

Nothing I do right now could change what happened in the past. What's done is done and it hurts so

bad I can't go back in time to change my mistakes.

It breaks my heart more every time I call his phone and hear. "Hey, it's Maverick. Leave a message

after the beep." I call him every night when I know he's not going to pick up, just to keep hearing his

voice.

Friday comes before I make up my mind on my final decision. I cried about it in the night and now that

I'm standing in the living room with my luggage in one hand, tears still stream down my face.

I take a paper note and a pen from my bag, setting the paper flat on the counter and writing down a

note:

I'm sorry I'm not the person you thought I was. I'm sorry I disappointed you too damn much, for nearly

everything. I'm sorry for hurting you. For trying to make things work and always fucking it up in the end.

I'm sorry... it's just sometimes, I feel like I was born to hurt the people I love, the people I want to love. I

guess the world made me this giant asshole without knowing it.

I thought I could change. I thought I actually had a shot at love, a shot at making you happy. I don't

know anything anymore but I know there has to be more to this. More to me. More to you. I just wish

things were different. I wish I could wake up, do what I have to do, and somewhere in between get a

text message from you saying how much you need me. How much you miss me, and love me.

I wish things were easier. But they're not. I am my own self-destruction. And I just need someone to

love me. To not give up on me. To tell me I can still be good.

I wipe the last of my tears and pin the note on the refrigerator, stepping back to look at the house I've

had good memories in. I should thank him for that, for giving me a break of my own sad life and a

better view of life.

I punch a number on my phone and bring it to my ears, taking a deep breath as the other line rings and

picks.

"Dad, I'm coming home."