Chapter 76 76
POV Elliot
I had become a ghost in my own life.
A month since I returned from Lisbon, a month since I broke up with Emma with a cold call, telling her I felt nothing more, that it was over without long explanations. She cried on the phone, asked why, if there was someone else, if it was something she had done. I didn't respond. I just hung up and blocked her number. Not because I hated her, but because every time I looked at her, I saw what she wasn't: she wasn't her. She wasn't Mrs. Ellis. Emma was a distraction, a way to pretend I could live normally, but Lisbon had shattered that illusion. Now I was here, at this party with mutual friends, in a big house in the center, with loud music and people laughing as if the world wasn't falling apart. I was drinking alone in a corner, staring at my glass of whiskey as if it held answers.
I saw her enter. Emma. Hair loose, short dress, perfect makeup. She moved through the crowd with that natural grace I used to like, greeting everyone, laughing with the people we knew. Our eyes met for a second, and I saw the flash of pain on her face. She kept walking, but I knew she would come. She didn't take long. She approached slowly, zigzagging through dancing bodies, until she stopped in front of me.
"How are you?" she asked, her voice loud over the noise.
I didn't hear her well. The music was pounding, people were shouting. I shook my head.
"I can't hear you."
I really just wanted her to go away.
She took my hand. She led me to a side hallway, away from the main room, where the noise was a distant murmur. There she let go, got close, and kissed me on the cheek, as if she still had the right.
"I asked how you are," she said, looking into my eyes, hers already watery.
"Fine," I replied, dryly. It wasn't a lie. It wasn't the truth. I was alive, that was all.
She bit her lip, looked at the floor for a second. Then she lifted her gaze, and before I could pull away, she tried to kiss me on the mouth. I turned my face. Her lips brushed my cheek.
"No, Emma."
"Is there someone else?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"No. There's no one else."
She cried then. Silent tears at first, then stronger, her shoulders shaking. She hugged me, pressing against me.
"Come back, Elliot. I love you. We can try again."
I pushed her away gently; I didn't want to give her false hope.
"I feel nothing for you."
I turned to leave, but she grabbed my arm.
"It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if you feel something for someone else. Stay by my side. We can be like before."
I got closer then. I knew I had to be harsh. Cruel, if necessary. So she would forget once and for all. I looked into her eyes, deeply, as if I wanted to etch the words into her soul.
"You can't be her. You never will be."
Her eyes widened, the crying now loud, noisy. People from the room started looking toward the hallway. I freed myself from her hand and left. I exited the party without looking back.
I walked to my car, got in, and started it. I didn't go home. I drove aimlessly; I didn't even know where I should be. Or yes, I did know, but I couldn't.
Is this what it felt like to have a heart? Is this what people meant when they said they were dying of love? But I wasn't dying... I was alive, and that was the worst part, that everything continued, that I was stuck in a loop that repeated endlessly, where nothing changed, she was still far away, still his... She continued ignoring my feelings.
The worst of all this was not knowing what the hell to do.
If I spoke, Kate would most likely hate me forever, but if I did nothing, I would hate myself, for not being able to have her by my side, for not being what she needs.
When the hell could I be that man?
I'd say my trip to Lisbon served no purpose, that it left me more broken, but that wasn't true, because at least it served to know that I could be the father of that child she's expecting. Which makes the situation even more desperate.
A month. A month since I saw her in that square, since I touched her belly and felt the baby move, since I asked what I couldn't stop asking.
Could it be mine? The idea had obsessed me ever since. I woke up at night sweating, imagining a child with my eyes, my smile, growing up in that house with Andrew as the father.
She had said she didn't know, that it could be either of ours. First with me, in the car, that last desperate encounter. Then with him, the same day. High possibilities. But equal with Andrew.
The clear difference: I was the lover, the mistake, the one left behind. He was the husband, the stable one, the one who had taken her to Lisbon to start over.
Was Andrew the problem? If Andrew didn't exist... would Kate be free for me?
Did I just have to get rid of him?
The idea lingered like a sweet poison. Without him, without his job, without his perfect house, maybe she would look at me differently. Maybe she wouldn't see me as an obsessed kid, but as the father of her child.
We could be a family.
But then came the other thought, the one Kate had driven into me: my mother.
She was right. I depended on my mother for everything. The apartment, the money, the university. Everything was hers. If my mother didn't exist... if that noose around my neck was cut... could Kate and I be free? Without her control, without her constant approval, maybe I could be the man she needed. Not a spoiled child, but someone who could support her, protect her, be a father.
But that was a dark fantasy. I couldn't think like that. I couldn't imagine a world where Andrew and my mother disappeared. What kind of person would think that way?
Me.
Kate had called me a psychopath. And maybe she was right. Maybe I was. Because the idea of that child being mine filled me with broken hope, with a rage I didn't know how to extinguish. I felt useless, worthless, like she had made me feel in that square. "You wouldn't be ready to be a father. You're too young." Her words burned me. Did that give her the right to keep me from knowing? To decide for me that I didn't deserve to be part of it?