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Please don’t let me see her.
I’m at the front door when I hear the click of high heels on the wood floor.
No, no, n—
“Claire!” Margot calls out to me. “This is Sophia. Sophia, Claire. Claire, Sophia.”
Turning, I nod at Margot and Sophia, letting out a croak of a hello. Margot’s looking at me funny, but Sophia smiles, her straight, white teeth looking like a toothpaste commercial. She’s stunning. There’s no way she’s older than twenty-three, with shoulder-length chestnut hair and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. I can picture her as an Instagram influencer or yoga instructor. I can’t see her running through the woods, branches snagging her gorgeous hair, clawing her pretty face. I don’t want to picture Shane fucking her.
“Are you okay?” Margot asks. “You look sick. Where are you going?”
I don’t know why she’s asking where I’m going. Shouldn’t she know? Maybe she thinks I’m off to some other man’s house, that I have a substitute Shane lined up the same way he clearly prepared to replace me with a newer, prettier version.
Just like fucking Keith.
I want to scream. Or sob. Possibly vomit. Anything but what I’m doing, which is smiling at the woman who is going to be fucked by the man I have way too many feelings for.
“No, I’m great.” The lie tastes bitter. “This is just me without make-up.”
Sophia smiles back at me, nose crinkling. She’s so cute it hurts. “I get it. I’m in the same boat today.”
My laugh sounds as unhinged as I feel. We aren’t in the same boat, not even the same ocean. “Well, you look great.” What am I supposed to say? Do I give her some tidbit of advice?
By the way, Shane loves pulling hair, so leave yours down. It’s impractical but worth it.
Images of Shane behind Sophia, rough fingers tangling in her hair, make me think I’m going vomit after all. I have to get out of here. With no other way to make this misery end, I give Margot a quick hug and open the front door. A goodbye later, and I’m free, crossing the front porch for the last time. Telling myself it shouldn’t hurt this much does nothing to ease the agony.
This was a gig, just a job.
No matter how many times I tell myself, it doesn’t feel true.
I know it isn’t a breakup, but it hurts like one, the pain intensified by the fact that I’m the only one hurting. That’s good though. Having Shane know I read more into our relationship than exists would be mortifying. I make the drive back home in a haze. It isn’t until I’m back in my empty apartment that I let myself cry.
I check my bank balance through tear-filled eyes, and for a moment, a ridiculous part of me hopes the payment won’t have gone through. That I’ll have a reason to contact him that isn’t a pitiful, How come you didn’t even say goodbye?
The money’s there, every last cent—more money than I’ve ever had in my account at one time. I shouldn’t still be crying, but I am. Big, pathetic tears that I can’t stop. I know so much better than this, but I did it anyway. Let myself think there was something there when there wasn’t. It would have been one thing if he just hadn’t asked me to do another thirty; that’s reasonable. I’d be nursing my hurt pride, but I wouldn’t be this devastated, would I?
It’s the leaving without a goodbye that feels cruel after all the time we spent together outside of the woods. I thought, at the very least, we were friends. I questioned my judgment after I believed Keith despite the warning signs. This makes me doubt myself even more.
Four hours, another hearty cry, and a shower later, I’m better. Not good, but better. Sitting in the apartment watching my roommate Sydney cuddle on the couch with her boyfriend all weekend will only depress me further. I’m going camping. I need to get back in the woods for a few days. Do a hike-in campsite. Let nature make me feel better the way it always does. Shake off Shane and reset. I’m single and about to pay off my student loans with a decent chunk of change left over. I should be happy. I’m lucky. Lucky, lucky, lucky.
Chapter Twenty
Shane
I can’t get home from work fast enough. All day I’ve been next to useless, thoughts consumed by the conversation I need to have with Claire. I want it to be perfect. For the millionth time, I’m wishing I’d never hired her, that I hadn’t been an impatient fuck. Then I wouldn’t be worried about her thinking I’m pretending to like her to get to fuck her for free. I wouldn’t wonder if she feels the same way I do. I’d know.
If she turns down the relationship, I’m going to propose another thirty days and then another after that. But I don’t want her with an expiration date. Ironically, when I hired her, the expiration date was the appeal. But when I thought this was a brilliant idea, I never thought she’d be so … Claire.
My excitement fades when I pull into the drive. For the first time in thirty days, there’s no green pickup sitting crooked in front of the house. I know she runs errands while I’m at work, but she’s always here when I get home. Of course, that was when the contract was in effect. It makes sense that she wouldn’t hold herself to my schedule now.
The house feels too still. “Gretchen?” I call. Maybe Claire mentioned where she was going or when she planned on being back. I could text her, but I don’t want to seem needy.
“Upstairs,” she responds.
I find her in Claire’s room, and a chill creeps over me. There’s nothing there. No stack of paperbacks on the nightstand, no sneakers beside the dresser. Gretchen’s remaking the bed with linens that look freshly laundered.
“Do you know where Claire is?” I ask, too flustered for a proper greeting.
