Never Summer Again

Chapter Eleven - The Mistake

Hey, Guys, I hope you like the story so far!

Thank you for reading and for all your love and comments, they mean the world to me!

So, I have received some questions about the playlist of the story and what songs I play in my head, as I write the story. So, I have decided to start adding songs to the story, as the songs I think of, for each chapter. Let me know what you think :)

Also, I will be introducing Mark's POV soon. Let me know if that's something you'd like, if you think it's a good moment to be adding it to the story, or if you'd like to read a separate book about the events in Never Summer Again through his eyes.

I am open to suggestions!

Now, enjoy Chapter 11:
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Score: Blank Spaces - Taylor Swift

Lydia

I wake up to the sound of the alarm I set to wake me up at 8 o'clock, to revise. I don't remember when I have fallen asleep, but I have the feeling that I haven't had enough hours of sleep to be able to function properly today.

I get out of bed and head to the shower. Mark's scent is still lingering on my skin and I need to wash it off, along with my sins, under the scorching spray.

What happened last night seems much, much worse in the light of day. I am paralyzed at the prospect of talking to Patrick or running into him. What I am most certain of is that I will not be calling him anytime soon.

I need to clear my head.

I walk into my bathroom and undress. I step into the shower and turn the water on. I wait for my small bathroom to steam up, before I step under the hot water and let the tension in my muscles dissolve at its mercy.

I put some shower gel on a loofah and start rubbing my skin vigorously, mercilessly scrubbing off Mark's kisses and my sweat from last night. As I rub the loofah over my chest, I feel a more sensitive spot on one of my breasts. Painful, even. I run my fingers over the spot and look down to examine it.

My blood runs ice-cold, even under the hot water. Right where my fingers are touching my skin, there is a bright blueish-red spot that is standing out against my creamy skin, as if branding me with my infidelity.

Fucking. Hell.

This is bad! Like, really bad! It is subtle enough to be able to hide under a T-shirt, but I wouldn't possibly wear a tank top, or a spaghetti-strap dress at least for a week. And I couldn't possibly strip down to my underwear in front of other people.

Shit! How did I not feel this? Even though, in the heat of the moment, I could have gone with much, much worse.

What would I tell Patrick, if he sees it? What would I tell him, if he tries to undress me?

We haven't had sex in a month, which, I know, is torturing him, but I just don't feel like it. Sometimes I feel like I can't be bothered, or I just can't get myself into the mood.

You were in quite the mood last night, my helpful rational mind sneers.

And, she is right. I was holding on to a teeny-weeny-tiny string of self-control that helped me walk away from that bloody car, otherwise, I would have gone with Mark somewhere, where there is no going back from.