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The bed dips as I crawl in, not even bothering to change as I drag the comforter up and over my head.
I am the worst of the worst. Lucifer himself wouldn’t want anything to do with me.
Sebastian, of course, would disagree. And honestly, I know that if I told him about last night, he’d say something sweet about how it was a small mistake, and mistakes help us learn, and it doesn’t make me a bad person, blah, blah, blah.
But I feel like a bad person. The worst kind of person.
I scared someone last night.
Shit, I scared myself.
I’m terrified to tell Sebastian. I can’t talk to Morgan about it, and my writer friends don’t have that sort of relationship. Besides, I want the comfort of talking to someone who is here, not a screen. There’s Aiden, of course, but Seb will probably wonder why I don’t want to talk to him, and he’s already way too good at seeing beneath my defenses.
I know crying is supposed to be cathartic, and the need to let go is pulling taut at the seams of my composure, but crying has only ever made me feel more alone. I could count on one finger the number of times anyone has seen me cry, and I was twelve the last time, having fallen off my bike and knocked my head against a fence hard enough to need stitches. Aiden said I kept it together until he hugged me, and then it was as if a dam burst.
It’s the same now. My body is fragile enough to break at the slightest touch. That’s the real reason I’m hiding in my room. If Sebastian even grazes my hand, I’ll fall apart.
I should just email the publisher and cancel the whole thing. Why am I even putting myself through this? I could get a regular job, use my journalism degree. Do onlinequizzes still exist? Or I could post ghostwriting services on one of those freelance forums.
Oh god. How can I even show my face outside again? I could bump into her anywhere. The library, the café, the lake. I should move back to Chance.
Maybe I never should have come home.
My stomach has twisted over itself multiple times when Sebastian appears, snacks in hand and a cautious smile that drops the second he sees me. I can’t tell what my face is doing, but if it’s half as unhinged as I feel, I’m shocked he isn’t calling a doctor.
I don’t let him catch a breath before I’m barrel rolling off the cliff I’ve been teetering on.
“I’m done. I should never have even tried, honestly. Who am I kidding? My editor is going to take one look at the manuscript and blacklist me.”
“Slow down. Talk to me. What happened? Yesterday you were happy because you’d finished it, and now you’re saying you want to throw everything out and give up?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I have no idea what I’m doing. The book is a mess?—”
“It’s not.”
“It was ridiculous to think I could do this. I should just stick with what I’m good at?—”
“You’re good at this. Bee, stop.”
Sebastian stills me. He places his hands on my shoulders, then slides them up to cup my face. “Something happened last night, didn’t it? With Morgan. You were quiet in the car. I thought you were tired, but you’re upset.”
My eyes go glassy.
“Shit,” he says, pressing kisses to the corners of my eyes, then gently to my lips. “Come here.”
He takes a seat on my bed, back against the wall, pulling me with him until I’m curled up against his chest. “What did Morgan do?”
“It wasn’t her. It was me.”
My voice is so small I can barely push the words out.
“Can you tell me?”
I don’t want to. If I could, I would delete the last twenty-four hours from my brain. I wish I could go back to yesterday. I wish there was a way to make it better.
Tears fall when I blink. “Last night…”
This is so much harder than I thought it would be.
