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I make myself a strong drink, staring at my phone, hoping against hope that Lilly will text me back.
Chapter 22
Lilly
The missed calls and texts continue to roll in, and I continue to ignore them. Each buzz of my phone sends another wave of sadness through me, so I eventually lock it in my bedroom while I work on my laptop from the couch.
It’s well past 5 on Friday night, but I’ve barely gotten any work done this week. Mostly what I’ve done is cried. Just thinking about it makes a lump form in my throat, but I swallow it, refusing to succumb to tears again.
I’ve never taken a breakup this hard before. If you could even call this a breakup. We were never official. We were never anything. And maybe that’s what hurts so much. We were never anything. I was nothing to him.
And to me, he was so, so much more.
I’d had sex with him. The only person I’ve ever slept with, and he completely screwed me over.
It’s not like I’m some prude who suddenly feels sullied or impure. And it’s not like I was waiting for Mr. Right to give it up to. But the fact that he’d lied to me to get what he wanted—sex—and I’d so obliviously fallen for it is humiliating.
That’s the emotion I keep coming back to. Humiliation. I’d given everything to him, exposed everything about myself. And to him, it was all a game.
I’d never really intended on staying home from work this week, but as each morning arrived, I just couldn’t make myself go in. I couldn’t make myself face him in person. The embarrassment, the hurt—it was all too much.
I’d called Monica to let her know I had a “cold” and wouldn’t be coming in this week. Everything I normally do can be done from my laptop at home.
I can only hope that Aiden finishes up whatever loose ends he needs to and goes back to King Tech and I never have to see him again. The only problem is the art show next Thursday evening. We’d ironed out all the details last week, and most of the actual planning has been in his hands now. He’s obviously going to be there, and I have to be there too. It was my original idea, after all. And I’m the program manager. I can’t just not show up.
It's a fact I’ve been battling with all week.
It reminds me that I’m supposed to be helping him come up with the actual art pieces to display at the show. While I’d originally had grand plans of finding some local artists or showcasing a young student of the foundation, I decide that the various inventory we have at the building already—art from students and teachers that they donated or didn’t want—will have to do.
I send Aiden a cordial, if not short, email about where to find these pieces and to simply choose whichever ones he thinks are best.
A sudden knock on my door startles me, and I look up from the couch. I feel a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t actually come to my home demanding that I speak with him. Not after what he did. What he knows he’s done.
I stand from the couch, smoothing my hair as I stalk across the room. I yank the door open, about to demand why he’s there, when I see Monica standing on the other side.
My words fizzle on my tongue.
“You don’t have a cold, do you?” she asks with a pointed look.
“Uh, I …”
“Oh, save it.” She brushes past me into the apartment, and I mechanically shut the door behind her. When she reaches the living room, she twirls around, hands on her hips. “Something’s going on with you and Aiden King.”
I sigh, striding past her and settling back in on the couch. She sits beside me, expectant.
“We had a fling, and it’s over,” I say simply.
Her eyes widen. “You had a what?”
I close my eyes in frustration—not at her, but at me. At how stupid I was to allow myself to get caught up in all this.
“We kept seeing each other after his brother’s wedding. I thought there was something real there, but apparently I was wrong.”
Monica’s eyebrows knit together in concern. “What made you realize that?”
“I saw a text from him to his brother basically saying that all he wanted to do was sleep with me.”
Monica winces. “Oof. Yeah, that’s not great.”
