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He moves like he’s walking a tightrope, tense and controlled. He crosses the room to a tall chest of drawers next to the door and yanks the second drawer open, speaking as he reaches inside.
“I’ll text you a copy of my most recent STD tests. Obviously, I’m clean.” Mechanical. Practical. “I’d thank you to do the same.”
Anger boils up inside me, hateful words needling my tongue.
Not even “Thanks for the ass, Elle”? Maybe even “Nice pussy, now get out?” Or “Hey, hope I didn’t hurt you piledriving you like a wildebeest?”
But I can’t bring myself to say it.
I don’t know how to deal with this.
And I don’t know how to handle it when he turns back to me with a white dress shirt in hand, folded and clearly soft-worn enough that it’s been retired from everyday use.
He offers me the shirt at arm’s length. The storm in his eyes has gone flat, leaving nothing but his usual glacial ice.
“You can clean up in the bathroom. Turn left where the hall splits,” he says. “The guest bedroom is the door on the right.”
I feel like I’ve been punched in the heart.
I have about sixty seconds at best to get away from him.
Forget the bathroom.
I wobble to my feet and reach for the shirt, clutching it against me for some cover. I don’t even have the presence of mind to go back for my dress, my purse, everything else I dropped.
I just stare down at my feet, wanting to scream at him.
We could have kept this casual, dammit.
At least he didn’t have to be cruel.
But all I can manage is a small, mortified “Thanks” before I brush past him and try to walk—not run—out of his bedroom.
I make it around the curve of the hallway before I break.
First the painful sniffle, the burning tears, and then I’m pelting away with a sob until I dive into the guest bedroom, shut the door, and fling myself down on the bed.
I don’t feel like getting dressed right now, so I just curl around the crumpled mess of his oversize shirt and bury my face in the pillow to muffle my cries.
Why the hell did I have to fall for a rhino dick like August Marshall?
I wish I wasn’t right about sleeping alone tonight.
Not like this.
But hey, there’s a bright side in this too.
Now I know for sure to never, ever get my hopes up.
XII
MORNING GLOOM
(AUGUST)
I am the worst human being alive.
I’m not sure I deserve to be called human anyway.
