“She cost so much money, Carrick. Now that we’re…no longer together, it would feel wrong of me to keep her.”

He blows out a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t keep the car, Andressa.” His words are quiet, pained. “Even if you no longer want her, I just…I can’t keep her. I can donate her to a charity auction or something. I don’t know. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.” He looks at me with pleading eyes, and there’s a desperation in his words that says so much more.

Is he not over me?

It’s wrong for me to feel a spark of hope that I have no entitlement too, but still, I feel it.

I so desperately want to reach out to him in this moment.

Keeping a hold of myself, I bind my hands together in front of me. “I’ll keep her.” I don’t want to hurt him any more than I already have.

His eyes lift a little. “Where should I have her shipped to? Here…or your place in England?”

I still have my apartment. The lease was for a year, and it’s not up yet.

Is that hope in his voice at the thought of me going back to England?

“It’s…probably best to have her shipped here.”

His eyes dim.

I wrap my arms around myself to try to ward off the chill I feel. But it’s not going anywhere because it’s coming from deep inside me. “Please make sure to send me the bill for shipping.”

“It’s okay.” He brushes me off.

But I can’t let him pay. He’s done enough for me already.

“Please let me pay for the shipping, Carrick,” I say softly.

“Jesus, Andressa!” he snaps. “Just let me do this one last fucking thing for you.”

His impatience is driven by hurt.

I know that, and that’s why I say in a soft, sad voice, “Okay, Carrick…okay.”

The air is thick with everything. So much is left unsaid between us. It’s hard to breathe. My whole body is aching for his. Memories are painting out in the air around us, killing me slowly.

I lift my eyes, meeting with his. It’s there, that connection between us, the one that’s been there right from the start.

His lips part, like he’s just about to say something, but he’s cut off at the roar of the engine as Owen’s car pulls up in front of mine.

Breaking away from his stare, I glance at Owen’s car. “I should…let you go.” God, this hurts—badly. I don’t want to leave him. But I have to.

I force my feet to move toward my car. “It was really good seeing you.”

“Andressa…” His voice pulls me back, not that it would have taken much.

“Yes?” There’s hope in my voice. I know it, and I can’t help it.

“I just…wanted to…” He’s struggling. It’s hard to see, but it gives me that stupid hope again.

He rubs a hand over his hair as he blows out a breath. “I just wanted to say the garage feels empty without you.”

Then, he’s gone, getting in Owen’s car, and they’re driving away.

I watch the blink of the car lights disappearing into the traffic.

Steadying myself with a hand on my car, I breathe in deep, sucking back tears.

I unlock my car and get inside. I turn the ignition, the radio coming in midst of Beyoncé’s soulful voice saying that she’s “Scared of Lonely.”

And I break down.

It takes me fifteen minutes before I can compose myself enough to be able to drive home.

“Bridget Jones OR The Holiday?”

I stare at the DVD cases in my mum’s hands, not really feeling like watching either. I’m not exactly in the mood for a chick flick. I’ve apparently been in an “arse of a mood”—quoting my mum there—for the last few days…since I saw Carrick basically. I think these movies are her way of getting back at me.

Fingering my necklace, I say, “Cars.”

“Bridget Jones it is.” She gives me a saccharine smile.

My mum’s not exactly a fan of Cars. I think I’ve driven her mad with it over the years.

Turning from me, she puts the disc in the player.

“I got some treats,” she says before leaving the living room. She reappears a minute later with her hands behind her back. “When I was in town earlier, I went to that store that sells English food, and you’ll never guess what they had.” Her face is all lit up.

“Alcohol?” That’s just my wishful thinking that she bought me some.

My mum’s not really a big drinker, and she rarely drinks at home. But I could really do with a drown-my-sorrows beer right about now.

“English chocolate!” She pulls out from behind her back a big bar of Cadbury Dairy Milk and an even bigger bar of Galaxy.

Jesus Christ.

Carrick’s chocolate.

I have to stop myself from bursting into tears.

Of all the chocolate in the whole of fucking Brazil that she could have bought, she buys his chocolate—not that she knows it’s his chocolate. Still, it’s like the gods have it in for me or something.

“I know how much you hate Brazilian chocolate since it’s too bitter and how you miss chocolate from England, so I thought this might cheer you up.”

“Thanks,” I manage to get out. Flopping back on the sofa, letting my depression spread over me, I throw an arm over my face and sprawl out, my long legs taking up all the space.

On a tut, Mum lifts my legs. I move my arm from my face to see her sitting down, my legs still in her hands. Once she’s seated, she puts my legs on her lap.