Forty - THree - Serena

“Check his Instagram.”

 

 

 

I’m right back where I started.

On blind dates.

Only this time, I’m doing it right. No games. No underlying intentions. I’m doing it for myself. I’m in pursuit of that beautifully exhilarating feeling I experienced with Kholton.

The companionship. The laughter. The way he looks at me like I’m a goddess with the elixir to everlasting life. I want that again. All of it.

However, after being on a number of dates so far, I’m beginning to lose hope that I’ll ever experience those things again.

Some go overboard in a desperate attempt to impress me. Some are too alpha. Some too beta. None of them Kholton.

Kholton wasn’t an alpha, nor was he a beta. Confident, yes, but never a braggart. He was…perfect and imperfect. Realistic. Manly, yet childlike. Ingenious, yet humble. Sexy, and unapologetic about it.

His betrayal in the end was dishearteningly disappointing, but in all other aspects, I felt his truth and realness. I craved him like a drug, and went mad when I couldn’t see him, all the while convincing myself it was all for getting knocked-up.

The truth is, my life has been extremely dull without his sunshine smile and lightning bolt hair. Without his compassion for the unfortunate and his constant desire to help. Without his favorite cartoons playing in the background.

I miss him so freaking much. But I’m done chasing him. So here I am, seated at a table for two in a fancy restaurant, waiting for a late date.

Can I tell you secret? I’m miserable.

 

Serena: Date is 20 mins late. WTF?

Alaric: Sorry. Will contact him now for an ETA. Don’t leave.

Serena: Nope. I’m outta here.

 

As I’m picking up my clutch to leave, I notice the hostess weaving toward my table with a tall, dark, hot-as-sin man in tow. Dark jeans, worn leather jacket with a white tee underneath, and Timberlands.

Oh, hell no. Not this dickhead.

Jumping to my feet, I scan the restaurant for other possible exits to dodge this asshat and hightail it out of here.

“Nuh-uh,” he says as he reaches my table. “I shelled out a lot of dough for this date. You’re gonna give me the time of day, Sweetcheeks.”

The hostess glances between us, confused.

“Get me a bottle of the most expensive Sangria you have,” he tells her as he pulls out a chair and sits down. “After all, Miss Billionaire Bentley here will be footing the bill.” 

“What are you doing here?” I hiss out.

He picks up the menu and scans it with a bored expression. “You might as well sit down. Your real date won’t be showing up. He’s having…transportation trouble.”

I narrow my eyes at him. And then they blow wide. “Oh, my God. That first night… Khol wasn’t stood up, was he? And my date’s fall…it was you.”

“To be fair, all I did as his Uber driver was take a few wrong turns and drive below the speed limit,” he says, holding up a corrective finger. “I’ve got nothing to do with his fall. If he hadn’t jumped out of the car in anger that wouldn’t have happened.”

What a dick! “What do you want, Brian? The last time I saw you, you ditched me at the airport.”

Sobering, he sets the menu down. “You changed your number.”

“Yes. And?”

“I tried to call you.”

“Why? Are we friends?”

He seems solemn all of a sudden. “No, but you and Naan are.”

This is enough to get me to sit down. “What’s wrong? Is she okay?”

“No.” He watches me for a beat. “She never got better. She caught Pneumonia. She died, Serena.”

“Oh my God,” I choke out, my voice barely above a whisper. “Naan. Oh my God.”

A heavy darkness settles onto my shoulders. That strong, marvelous, hoot of a woman. Just like that, she’s gone. She brought so much joy and laughter to my life in the short time I knew her. My God, she will be missed.

“When?” I ask.

“Roughly ten days ago.”

“Ten days?” I half-shout. “Are you kidding me?”

Brian glances around the restaurant at my small outburst. “She’s Californian. Khol had to work on getting her body back home. It took some time.”

Oh. I sit back and play with the stem of my wine glass. “May I ask why you’re the one telling me this?”

“Because I know you cared for her.”

“You’re right,” I affirm, “I cared a heck of a lot for her. But for him to not tell me about Naan, that’s taking things to a whole other level. If he doesn’t want me around, there’s nothing I can do about that, Brian.”

He frowns at me. “What’re you talking about?”

Huh? “What do you mean?”

“You just said he doesn’t want you around.”

“Because he doesn’t.” Isn’t this common knowledge by now? “He blocked my number and stopped responding whenever I message or email him. So I’ve moved on with my life.”

Brian sits back and scratch his square jaw. “When was the last time you checked his Instagram?”

 A long damn time. “I deleted the app so I wouldn’t be tempted to do just that.”

A ring tone goes off and he reaches inside his leather jacket for his phone. He checks the screen, then taps out a quick message to someone before returning the phone from whence it came.

From the other side of his jacket, he produces a small pen and scribbles something on a napkin. “I gotta bounce. But check his Instagram and don’t miss Naan’s funeral. She really liked you and would’ve wanted you there.”

He slides the napkin across to me, and then he’s gone.

Scribbled on the napkin, is the address where Naan’s funeral will be held. And a P.S note:

 

Obviously, he sent me to you.

He wants you there.

Show up.

 

I fold it up and tuck it in my clutch. Why couldn’t he have called me and told me himself? Naan’s death is far more important than whatever we’ve got going on.

Chomping on my lip, I eye my phone.

Check his Instagram.

Do I really want to do this again? Get sucked into the pit of Kholton Obsession and Addiction? Make an ass of myself when I can do so much better? I’m Serena freaking Bentley, I don’t need to be chasing after no man.

So, I don’t check his Instagram.

Instead, I throw some money on the table, and I go home.

 

 

When 3:00 AM rolls around and I find myself tossing and turning, I know I’m never going to fall asleep unless I check his goddamn Instagram.

Dammit!

Reluctantly, I reinstall the app. As soon as I sign in, I’m bombarded with notification after notification after notification. The little heart icon that indicates the number of new notifications I have reads 15,987.

What in the world? 

As I go through them, I realized that they’re all tags from strangers.

They all have comments like, “#Tellhimyoulovehim, you idiot!”

And “You dumb bitch, he’s HOT, #tellhimyoulovehim!”

And “You’re sooooo lucky! @KholSharpe is soooo dreamy. #Tellhimyoulovehim!”

And “I don’t know what he sees in you. You’re not that pretty or cute & your hair color & boobs are obviously fake. But hey, the heart wants what it wants. #Tellhimyoulovehim or whatever.”

Confused as all get out, I navigate to Kholton’s page on the hunt for context to all these tags.

The first thing I see is, well, me.

In several posts.

I scroll down to as far as a week and a half ago and stop on one particular post. A screen-shot of what he’s listening to.

Tell Me You Love Me, by Demi Lovato.

Caption:

#tellme.

 

The next post is a picture of the both of us. It’s not a picture I’ve seen before, but I can identify where and when it was taken. Aunty Reba’s surprise party at The Roti House.

We’re on the dance floor, probably drunk as hell by the time that photo was snapped. His hands are on my hips; mine are locked around his neck. He’s gazing down at me with that “You are a goddess” expression, and I’m gazing up at him like there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.

We look as if… we look like we’re in love.

The caption reads:

 

So, I seem to have gotten myself into a bit of a jam. I made the dumbest mistake any human could ever make. I fell in love. I fell in love with one of the most beautiful, defiant, independent, vulnerable, stubborn women I’ve ever met.

And then I did something even dumber than the dumbest thing a human could ever do. I betrayed her. (No, no, I didn’t cheat, ladies, so put the pitch forks down!)

I did my best to make it up to her, and she told me she forgave me. She even wants to be with me regardless of what I did. (Yay for me, right?)

Except the one thing she’s refusing to give me is the only thing I want. Her love.

Call me a p*s*y, but coming from a guy who used to dub every girl “Julie” because I could never remember any of their names, I NEED that validation. Call me insecure, whipped, a little bitch. I don’t give a shit. I just need this woman who makes my heart race faster than Usain Bolt to tell me she f*cking loves me.

If you believe in true love, tag @DRealSerenaBentley and tell her to #tellhimyoulovehim and end my misery.

#shestheone #amreadyforlove

#onceaplayernowasucker #needthatvalidation

 

What in the ever-loving hell?

That was posted twelve days ago. Every post after that is either a picture of me or a picture of the both of us looking more couple-y than we actually were. All with the same caption: #tellmeyouloveme.

The latest post, made yesterday, is another screen-shot of what he’s listening to.

The Scientist, by Coldplay.

As tears begin to burn my eyes, I turn off my phone and curl onto my side, because it’s all too much right now. I’m feeling too much all at once and I can’t handle it.

But into the darkness, I whisper so quietly that only my heart can hear, “I love you, Kholton Sharpe.”