DECEPTION | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Quinn always, without fail, left a sealed, takeaway coffee cup on the step before she walked away. It was usually lukewarm by the time I sipped it, and she never forgot to scribble something motivational or inspirational on the bottom.

It will get easier.

It is okay to be sad.

No one else can do it for you.

One foot in front of the other.

You are stronger than you think.

I wish you'd find your way back to us, Emma.

With the crisp morning air in my lungs, I jogged through the magnificent old trees of Hyde Park, the fallen, brittle leaves crepitating beneath purposeful footsteps, the cold morning breeze in my hair. It was still dark outside, with the occasional jogger in sight and passerine birds tweeting and flapping in the gnarled branches of sycamores.

Music pounded in my ears.

Lured into the scenic trail of common ash trees, I jogged with brutal, unsparing swiftness, dripping in sweat, until a spot of damp land braced my fall. Perhaps I tripped over my feet. Maybe I blacked out from exhaustion. All I know is I had a mouthful of dry leaves and unexplainable tears streaming down my cheeks. Still, if I cried, I did so in silence. Thoroughly defeated and more emotional than I would like, I threw the headphones across the grass, muted the music on my phone and rolled onto my back. It is said that song lyrics are good tools to cope with grief and loss, but sad music is a maladaptive strategy and nostalgically triggering. I responded to depressing music with goosebumps and provoked feelings of unhappiness. I listened to sedative tempos and weakened chords because the idiot inside me became the victim of unpleasant tasks. And that is why the headphones can stay in the dirt for all I care. I don't want them. I don't need them. I will delete the playlist on my phone.

Languid from physical exertion and emotional exhaustion, I gazed at the miserable sky with an acute sense of observation as another female jogger continued her journey along the path. It had bothered her, the crazy woman keeled over in the middle of the park, seemingly in the throes of a mental breakdown, because she slowed down considerably to insert the point of espial, but there were not enough obstacles in London to divert or distract attention. Her need to complete her keep-fit session outweighed her concern for a stranger. Her cautious steps developed into vigorous strides as she powered through the lengthy trail of picturesqueness.

I, however, had no desire or energy to finish what I had started. I would rather stay here, in a bed of leaves, basking in the alacrity of wretchedness, than force myself to exist in such a cold, evil world without purpose.

My role as a mother, as a human being, gradually dissipated. I ran to stay focused, worked to pay bills, slept to rejuvenate and ate to survive, but without the expectations of everyday life, the pressure to get up in the morning and put one foot in front of the other, I had nothing to live for, not anymore.

A ragged breath escaped my lips.

Wiping the tears from my eyes, I willed myself to stand, brushing brown foliage off my clothes and pulling fragile sprigs out of my hair. I traipsed through trees that had somehow curved inwards to create an archway for the footpath. I espied a tall, shadowy figure running steadily toward me. It was a determined-looking man garbed in sportswear. A regular, I thought, as I catalogued the fine bone structure of his jaw and the turbulence of emotions in his deep-set eyes. He spoke to me once when I piledrived into him in the midst of an unfocused run. I did not know his name. He did not know my name. Yet, I felt a sense of familiarity with him whenever he and I stumbled upon each other.