Dangerous [Bradley Simpson] Sequel to On the Floor (novella)

Chapter Three - V

I wasn't sure how many minutes had passed before anyone spoke, but it felt like an eternity. All three boys had their eyes fixed on me. Maybe they thought I was going to cry, or even scream. I could almost hear James praying that I didn't have another panic attack.

I wanted to cry and I wanted to scream. I wanted to pretend it was a joke and start laughing. All I could do, however, was nothing. That thought alone made me want to rot from the inside out. I lost him.

I lost Bradley.

"Who is she?" I finally managed to croak out.

"We can talk about it another time—

"Who is she?" I demanded. "Do I know her?"

None of them spoke, but instead looked at each other as if trying to figure out what to say.

"I do, don't I?" I said. "Is it Lauren?"

"Please, Charlotte—

"It's Adelaide." I raised my voice slightly. "And I have a right to know if that talentless bitch is marrying the love of my life."

"No," Connor spoke. "It's not Lauren."

"Then who?" I asked again.

"Just leave it—

"No!" I exclaimed, rising from my seat. "I will NOT let you drop this bomb on me without telling me who she is!"

"Yes you will," James stood up. "This discussion is finished until—

"You are not my mother!"

"Stop!" He yelled.

"Just tell me who she is!" I hollered back.

"We aren't telling you," James folded his arms together defiantly. "Not until you stop this."

"So this is what you're going to do to me?" I questioned. "Drag me to the other side of the world against my will, then break my heart with no validation? Just give me her name!"

This time Connor stood up, coming near me. "I am so sorry Charl—Adelaide. Can we just let this wound heal first?"

"Why can't you just tell me?" I said, feeling my cheeks getting wet. I wasn't even aware I started crying.

"We will," Connor said. "Soon, I promise, but this is the first time we've seen you in six years. Can we make up for lost time before things fall apart again?"

I wiped my face, and with defeat, I sat down.

The days I spent cooped up in James' flat were almost as bad as prison. I've never been there, but I liked to think there was something worse than physically feeling your heart wilt away with each passing second. I was positive that prison didn't come with a bed as soft as clouds, or even a private shower, but at least the people wouldn't pity you. Seeing James watch me like a piece of china glass tinkering on the edge did nothing to soothe my sorrows, but only make it worse. For days, I kept myself in bed, never willing to leave. My body felt tired constantly, as if my bones were made of boulders. James brought me food three times a day on a real silver platter, with his eyes full of unwanted empathy. Most of the food went uneaten; I wanted my body to wither away too.

I hadn't kept track of how many days it had been, but I knew by the sounds coming from the television commercials in James' living room that Valentine's Day was upon us. For six years, I imagined what Brad and I would do for the holiday. My favorite thing to think about was just lying in bed with him all day, singing and playing guitar, making love, and teasing each other. Now, when I tried to imagine it, I was on the outside looking in, and he was wrapped around another girl. His fiancée.