Until You’re Mine

“In two years, we’ll be together again. You’ll become my fiancée seven years after that, and my wife a year later.”

Those were the parting words of my ex-boyfriend.

Ten years later, they still haunt me—mostly because I almost believed them.

I could say it feels like I’ve lost a part of myself, but that sounds painfully cliché. And I’m not the cliché type.

I’m the type that faces the truth: what we had ten years ago was sweet, but it’s gone. Just like Miguel Adrián Enrique Fitz-James Stuart y Borbón-Dos Sicilias walked out of my life and never looked back.

Can’t blame him. Man makes plans, they say—God laughs. I suppose he learned that the hard way when he became a duke before he’d turned eighteen—suddenly saddled with an estate that demanded everything. My fifteen-year-old boyfriend had it all mapped out so neatly, and I bought it—hook, line and sinker. What was it he said again? Oh, right:

“I don’t take my promises lightly, and this is a promise. We’ll meet up at Yale. I know it’s your dad’s alma mater, and they’re very good with the performing arts. They also excel in medicine, so we can study together. Medical school may take longer. I’ll give myself seven. When I’m done, I’ll propose in a way you can’t resist.”

I’m hopeless for committing every word to memory, I know. But I was fourteen, and he was the hottest boy ever to walk the planet — I swear it. And, as it turns out, he’s only grown into a total heartthrob. He’s all over the glossy pages of margazines these days — mostly the business rags, apparently doubling his wealth every time he so much as blinks. The Duke of Monteoro this, the Duke of Monteoro that. Now and then he even pops up in science features, and occasionally even in fashion spreads. Tragic, isn’t it, that my head is crammed with useless facts about him, while he’d probably just go, “Eloise who?” if we ever crossed paths again.

To answer your question: yes, I have saved a few cut-outs from those magazines for my wall… alright, fine — more than a few. I know exactly how it looks like, but no, I don’t particularly care to hear any more opinions about why I’d decorate my room with my ex-boyfriend. I’ve already gotten quite enough from my best friend, Lila.

Lucky her—treating heartbreak like a stepping stone to the real deal. She actually met him not long after Doug, her high school boyfriend, gave her the boot when he got into Princeton and she didn’t make the cut. He’s an astronaut with a good shot at being among the first lot sent off to Mars on the NASA Artemis programme. Very cool.

Lila doesn’t quite see it my way, though, especially now they’ve got their adorable baby girl, Nina… my goddaughter.

Back to why my ex is basically all you see the moment you step into my room—as if I’ve dedicated the place to him as some sort of shrine. Yeah, there was a time I believed it all—his disarming smile, those hazel eyes that always seemed to be hiding something, and those out-of-this-world looks paired with that easy chivalrous European charm. Moreover, I just didn’t see the need to waste time putting up new wallpaper when I hardly even use the room. I mostly stayed at my dad’s, even though I paid good money in rent for this place. Dad’s was way more spacious, had a pool, and came with a doting daddy.

And instead of a twenty-six-year-old nympho carrying on in the next room every time it suited her fancy, I had a fifty-year-old man for a housemate.

I heard muttered voices from outside, followed by a sudden squeal of giggles that had me rolling my eyes. My roommate was back—and hey, she’d got a guy with her. Surprise.

I was going to make myself a sandwich; was starting to feel hungry running over the speech I was supposed to deliver in front of cameras tomorrow, apologizing on behalf of Brans-Chocolate, my employer. But with Betsy and Fling Number thirty-three in the house, I considered staying in my room until I was very sure they were sleeping. They could literally be doing it anywhere. I’d even run into her and a man in the bathroom once. That was the moment I decided on Dad’s place unless I couldn’t make it there. In this case, Dad was off in Madrid for a book launch, and I didn’t want to stay in the house alone.

God. Madrid.

Where Miguel lives.

It didn’t bother me at all that, even after all these years, my heart still did that ridiculous little flutter whenever the city was mentioned. It was one big reason I kept turning Dad down whenever he invited me along, even though he’d had some of his biggest launches there and was always busy in the city. The Spanish are apparently mad for his mystery novels, and I could tag along and lend a hand.

Well, that... avoiding-my-past situation... running away..., whatever label you wish to slap on it—and my job. The real one. Not the author thing, which, if I’m being brutally honest, hasn’t exactly given me anything worth bragging about.

Once upon a time, I thought romance novels flew off the shelves like hotcakes. Fun fact—they do, in a certain category. Unfortunately, I didn’t dare leave the explicit bits in mine, just in case Miguel ever stumbled across a copy and realised it was about him… about us. My own dreamy version of how our high school romance carried on.

I mean, yes, I hid behind a pen name, but when it’s published by the very same company that puts out B. Thomas’s mystery novels, he’d twig straight away. Thinking back, my Maplehurst High Writing Contest piece—the one about us that got auctioned off—was mortifying enough on its own, without my name being splashed across the cover of some soppy paperback romance, tipping into erotica.

After that one book I wrote that just hovered around the average mark, I shelved my writing. I had my studies to focus on after all; sitting for the bar wasn’t a joke. Then too, there was my life to live.

It would be 2:37 in the morning in Madrid—far too late to bother Dad with a FaceTime call. Hungry, lonely, and thoroughly miserable, I snapped my laptop shut and burrowed under the blanket. At least the duvet was comforting.

Too bad for me, my roommate and her guest had other plans for my peace and quiet. First came the giggles, then the whispered voices, and, inevitably, the groans and moans. Moments later, the bed next door began to creak in a steady rhythm. The sounds might have lulled me to sleep, if only they weren’t going at it like a pair of overenthusiastic hyenas

Another downside of living next to a walking libido was that I was constantly being dragged into thinking about sex—even when all I wanted was a bit of shut-eye, or a chance to properly stress about how I might well lose my job the next morning for letting a snarky remark slip and betraying the deep-seated loathing I harbour for my boss in front of, well, the entire world. It’s impossible to listen to all those wails and shrieks without your mind wandering to the idea of being pinned against a hard body yourself. Miguel then became nearly impossible to get out of my head.

Most nights, I drowned out her theatrics with some ear-splitting hard rock—fairly certain it killed the mood for them. Their performance usually ended right as my playlist hit its stride. Luckily for Number Thirty-Three, my mean streak was running at half strength tonight. I just rolled onto my stomach, pulled a pillow over my head, and made a valiant attempt at shutting my brain down.

Two minutes later, I was wide awake again. My sleep felt that brief because I could hear Betsy still screaming her head off and her bed was still creaking, unless they’d finished round one and were already onto round two.

Was two minutes enough time to make up that dreadful dream of Miguel slipping into my bed naked and hammering me into the mattress the way I imagined was happening to my roommate one paper-thin partition away? I guess all those sounds left unrestrained planted themselves in my head. I sighed, shoved the pillow down over my ears, and tried very hard to convince myself sleep might still be salvageable.

After one last, annoyingly loud, canine-like roar from Number Thirty-Three that nearly had me slamming my fist straight through the partition, there was, at last, silence. Blessed, beautiful silence. Hopefully that was the curtain call, and maybe now the rest of us innocent bystanders could finally get some sleep.

The room was freezing cold with the AC on full blast, yet somehow stiflingly hot at the same time, and my throat felt parched. I crept out in search of water, leaving the lights off so as not to draw attention, and padding silently through the dark toward the kitchen — only to find it floodlit like a football stadium. I groaned in exasperation. I did weigh the option of retreating quietly into my room as I stood behind the door, but thirst won.

And he was in there. Number Thirty-Three, guzzling my orange juice straight from the bottle like some desert wanderer stumbling on his first oasis. He’d commandeered our poor little two-seater table and turned it into a throne, one massive foot propped up on a chair like his own footrest. He should have known the juice didn’t belong to his squeeze. Call me territorial, but everything I put into that fridge had my name on it. And I was pretty sure he could read the sticker saying “Eloise” in large, bold print on the bottle when he picked it. Oh, what the hell. Just one more thing I was learning to put up with, renting a room on the wrong side of town and sharing it.

“Hey,” he slurred as I stepped into the room.

I shot him a hard look, deliberately ignoring his attempt at a greeting.

“You must be the cousin-roommate. Hm, you’re actually hot. How she described you made me picture someone... drab, like you won’t even know what fun looks like even when it’s spelt out for you. That ain’t true, right?”

Another glare aimed at him as I retrieved a glass from the tray.

An intelligent person might have taken the hint and given up engaging me by now, but let’s face it, irrespective of how nicely we try to put it, some bartenders are just too dumb! This one in particular, and I could instantly see why Betsy was into him.

He scratched the wet trail left by the juice trickling down his chest, and chortled smugly. “Hope we weren’t too loud in there. We got carried away. You know how it is. You’ve been there.”

Ass.

He slid off the table, edging closer to me and the fridge. I clenched my teeth and started counting backward from ten in my head.

“So, you’re Eloise. Sounds queeny like Elizabeth and Catherine. And you work at Brans-Chocolate. Lawyer—sweet. I haven’t had a very personal relationship with a lawyer, but it sounds like fun.”

I’d wager anything in a skirt sounds like fun to him. The way he let the word personal roll off his tongue made my skin crawl.

Sure, he wasn’t bad-looking, but he was wearing ripped, baggy jeans, a rugged beard and an earring, and was covered in tattoos, and looked like a thug who picks pockets for a living. Anything personal with him will be asking him to wipe down my table at the bar. Don’t mistake me for a snob—my taste had simply become too refined with the calibre of boyfriends I’d had.

“You must be the first girl not waiting tables this apartment has seen. Betsy is lucky to have you. How did she find you?”

Quite simple. She got her mum—my mum’s sister—to sidle up to me about this “great place” close to Brans-Chocolate, where I’d just started working, conveniently failing to mention she was living there with a bunch of friends but could no longer afford. The plan was to get me on the lease so she could swoop back in. And, like the fool I am, still trusting relatives who only ever seem helpful when there’s an ulterior motive attached, I fell right into it.

I gobbled down two glasses of water, slid the bottle back into the fridge, and turned to leave.

He was in the way.

Excuse me?

“So… what does a lawyer do for fun?”

My eyes dropped into slits. The dumbass wasn’t suggesting what I thought he was, right? Before I could swing my leg and knock his head off his neck, Betsy poked her head in.

“Oh hey, El. I didn’t know you were up. And I see you’ve met Jesse,” she said in a voice that would’ve made you think Mandy Moore was belting out Only Hope. I suppose the singing voice came with the Barbie-like looks.

Betsy and I are somewhat similar in appearance. You can easily tell we’re related. We both can’t gain weight, standing around the average height of 5′7", 5′8". But while I have the looks that can be forgettable, she is graced with the sun-kissed golden blond hair and those lovely summer-blue eyes that have churned out models in my mother’s side of the family, including both our mothers. And, if she does a better job kissing up to her manager, or moving to New York, her too.

I waved as she dragged her asshole away, then shuffled back to bed and collapsed into it. Tomorrow I might lose my job, but tonight I fell asleep wondering which would crush me first: the racket from Betsy’s room, or the ex who refused to leave my head.