swaying with every step that he takes. My heart contracts when the smell of alcohol surrounding him hits my nose. Grief laced with fear flows like a muddy river through me.
“Don’t beg, Blaire. Only weak people beg. Let her go. She’ll come back, like she always does,” my dad says.
My mom turns to look at my dad, scorn in her eyes. “Don’t fool yourself, Oscar. I’m not coming back.”
“But what about me?” I cry.
My mom’s gaze lands on me, softening a little, but then she turns to look at my dad and hardens instantly. “I’m sorry. I just can’t do this anymore.” She closes her suitcase and walks out the door.
“No, no, no, no!” I cry desperately, running after her, but she doesn’t stop walking. She doesn’t stop until she’s out the door, leaving me behind …
Sick to my stomach, I want to run toward the bathroom and throw up, but I fight the feeling like I fight everything else. I won’t let Walker or memories of my parents win. Like the strong conquer the weak, I will conquer my emotions. And really, it’s not like Walker’s desertion is the first one in my life.
So I’m going to do what I do best. I’m going to erase Walker from my life. I’m going to pretend that he never happened or existed, burying any kind of feeling and emotion so deep within me that my heart and head will forget they exist in no time. And like the vicious cycle that my life has become, I’ll find someone else.
I always do.
I have one goal in mind. To find out who Mr. Rothschild was.
I sit on my bed, open the computer, and Google his name. I skim the articles written about him in magazines and newspapers such as Time , The New Yorker , NYT , and Forbes . To say that he is rich would, honestly, be such an understatement. It becomes very obvious that he could, in fact, easily afford that necklace we saw and many more. He comes from old money from the Gold Coast of Long Island, and he is now the sole survivor and ruler of a media empire worth billions of dollars.
Once the truth settles in my mind that he is indeed as rich as King Midas and has a golden touch to boot, I decide to look at pictures of him. My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. There are images of him kissing more than a few of my favorite actresses on the mouth. He was married and divorced to a famous author, and was once engaged to a socialite with ties to European nobility. Apparently, at the age of thirty-eight, he has been married and divorced three times, plus countless numbers of flings. He has no kids. The word on the street is that he suffered a really bad breakup when he was young, from which he never fully recovered.
Hmm.
As I sit there, staring numbly at his picture on my screen, I can’t believe my luck. Have I really met the goose that laid golden eggs?
The image of Walker’s blue eyes and the poison reflected in them as he told me I was trash waltzes through my mind, but it already hurts less than it did a couple of hours ago. It already seems like a distant memory from my past.
Here’s the thing: I erase people from my life.
The moment you become a liability, I discard you. If I get the sense that you will hurt me, I’ll remove your existence from my mind and my heart, leaving a vacant place amongst so many holes within me. And I’m good at it. Once you’re out of my life, I’ll never think of you. I move on. You won’t even have the pleasure of being an afterthought.
You can call me heartless if you want, but the best way not to get hurt and not to get your heart broken, is by pretending that you lack one. And sometimes, I believe it. Almost.
So as I finish getting ready for work tonight, I erase Walker from my mind once and for all. It’s better this way. And I decide to give Mr. Lawrence Rothschild a call since I have some time to spare before heading to the restaurant.
I reach for my discarded clutch on the floor, get his card, and grab my phone.
Sitting on my bed, nervously running my hands over my
“Don’t beg, Blaire. Only weak people beg. Let her go. She’ll come back, like she always does,” my dad says.
My mom turns to look at my dad, scorn in her eyes. “Don’t fool yourself, Oscar. I’m not coming back.”
“But what about me?” I cry.
My mom’s gaze lands on me, softening a little, but then she turns to look at my dad and hardens instantly. “I’m sorry. I just can’t do this anymore.” She closes her suitcase and walks out the door.
“No, no, no, no!” I cry desperately, running after her, but she doesn’t stop walking. She doesn’t stop until she’s out the door, leaving me behind …
Sick to my stomach, I want to run toward the bathroom and throw up, but I fight the feeling like I fight everything else. I won’t let Walker or memories of my parents win. Like the strong conquer the weak, I will conquer my emotions. And really, it’s not like Walker’s desertion is the first one in my life.
So I’m going to do what I do best. I’m going to erase Walker from my life. I’m going to pretend that he never happened or existed, burying any kind of feeling and emotion so deep within me that my heart and head will forget they exist in no time. And like the vicious cycle that my life has become, I’ll find someone else.
I always do.
I have one goal in mind. To find out who Mr. Rothschild was.
I sit on my bed, open the computer, and Google his name. I skim the articles written about him in magazines and newspapers such as Time , The New Yorker , NYT , and Forbes . To say that he is rich would, honestly, be such an understatement. It becomes very obvious that he could, in fact, easily afford that necklace we saw and many more. He comes from old money from the Gold Coast of Long Island, and he is now the sole survivor and ruler of a media empire worth billions of dollars.
Once the truth settles in my mind that he is indeed as rich as King Midas and has a golden touch to boot, I decide to look at pictures of him. My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. There are images of him kissing more than a few of my favorite actresses on the mouth. He was married and divorced to a famous author, and was once engaged to a socialite with ties to European nobility. Apparently, at the age of thirty-eight, he has been married and divorced three times, plus countless numbers of flings. He has no kids. The word on the street is that he suffered a really bad breakup when he was young, from which he never fully recovered.
Hmm.
As I sit there, staring numbly at his picture on my screen, I can’t believe my luck. Have I really met the goose that laid golden eggs?
The image of Walker’s blue eyes and the poison reflected in them as he told me I was trash waltzes through my mind, but it already hurts less than it did a couple of hours ago. It already seems like a distant memory from my past.
Here’s the thing: I erase people from my life.
The moment you become a liability, I discard you. If I get the sense that you will hurt me, I’ll remove your existence from my mind and my heart, leaving a vacant place amongst so many holes within me. And I’m good at it. Once you’re out of my life, I’ll never think of you. I move on. You won’t even have the pleasure of being an afterthought.
You can call me heartless if you want, but the best way not to get hurt and not to get your heart broken, is by pretending that you lack one. And sometimes, I believe it. Almost.
So as I finish getting ready for work tonight, I erase Walker from my mind once and for all. It’s better this way. And I decide to give Mr. Lawrence Rothschild a call since I have some time to spare before heading to the restaurant.
I reach for my discarded clutch on the floor, get his card, and grab my phone.
Sitting on my bed, nervously running my hands over my
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