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We walk out of the police station in an uneasy silence, holding hands like we’re two people madly in love. Cameras flash as those vultures try to get the perfect picture, but I ignore them, reaching my car and getting into the driver’s seat.
“Thank you for coming; I really do appreciate it.”
“I did it because Tate told me he’d take me to court over the breach of contract if I didn’t,” I say without looking at him, keeping my eyes on the road as I drive. “I told him you should stay there a day or two to learn your lesson, but he was less than keen on the idea.”
"Well, you're here, and we won't be arriving at my place for a while now, so it gives us the perfect opportunity to talk about what happened?"
"What happened?" I huff, skepticism dripping from every word I utter. "Oh, I'm sure you have a fantastic explanation for treating me like you owned me, demanding to see my texts and breaking half the contents of your bar. Tate had me meet him at your place; it was an absolute mess. Or do you want to talk about your friend, who you beat up after getting wasted at the club?"
"He called you a—" he cuts himself off and shakes his head, sighing. "I was drunk, yes, and he said something rather unpleasant about you. I lost it, but I never meant to hurt him."
"I said I don't want to hear it. You men always have excuses for your behavior. My dad did. Adam did. And now, lo and behold, you do too. Isn't that just an amazing coincidence?"
"Ty, please. I'm not like them."
"Sure you're not. You're lucky that this friend of yours isn't pressing charges. You should really give your manager a raise. He managed to make everything go away. Most of it, anyway. No assault charges, no uproar from the club you went to last night, and I'm pretty sure there's a clean-up crew at your place to make it seem like nothing happened there last night either."
He grumbles something I can't quite make out, his jaw clenched tight, his stare fixed as far from me as they can get. For a moment, I almost feel sorry for him and let myself believe that he's actually repentant for everything he did.
Grayson shifted in his seat, his expression darkening as he stared out the window. "You know what, Tyley? Maybe you're right. Maybe I am an asshole. But you know what? You didn't make any efforts to de-escalate that situation either."
I shoot him a look, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles go white.
"It's not my job to soothe your delicate male ego when you're accusing me of cheating on you! Fuck, we're not even dating for real, and even if we were, I refuse to be with someone who neither respects my boundaries nor trusts me for shit."
"Why should I trust you? You weren't dragged to that coffee shop; you admitted it yourself. If you would have only let me see your phone—"
"Don't you get how messed up it is, demanding to see my texts?!" I scream, finally losing my cool. It was bound to happen, but I still hate myself for letting Grayson get to me.
His face contorts into a mask of stubborn defiance, and I could slap him right here and now before he utters a single word. But I’m not going to do that; it’s not who I am, and even if it was, I’m not about to get in a car crash for Grayson or any other guy.
“Messed up?" he scoffs, a petulant edge to his voice. "Maybe it wouldn't be messed up if you had nothing to hide."
Feeling the familiar sting of tears prickling at my eyes, I somehow find the willpower not to continue escalating yet another argument. Instead, I take a deep breath and say, as calmly as I can manage: “Trust is everything in a relationship. And if you can’t trust me, then it’s never going to be anything but fake.”
Grayson falls silent at this, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ve managed to get through that thick skull of his. The silence stretches on, thick and suffocating, and the only relief I feel is knowing I’m only a few blocks away from his home now.
Instead, he scoffs once more, crossing those massive arms over his equally massive chest. "So now it's all my fault? You meet up with your ex behind my back, the ex that’s been trying to shred my reputation to pieces, and then you have the nerve to lecture me about trust?"
My foot slammed on the brakes, the car screeching to a halt just two blocks shy of his home. Grayson, startled by the sudden stop, turns to face me, his scowl deepening.
"What the hell, Tyley?"
"Get out."
He blinks, taken aback by my sudden command. "What? Are you serious?"
"As serious as a heart attack. I’m done with this bullshit. I’m done with our deal. Want to sue me? Go right ahead, I’m sure the press will have a field day with that one, and if you win, I’ll send over the shitty furniture from my shitty apartment and the few clothes in my closet because I’m not rolling in dough like you are.”
"You can't just throw me out like yesterday's trash.”
"Actually, I can," I countered, my voice laced with a steely resolve. "Now get out of my car while I still own it. You might have my signature on a stupid piece of paper, but you don’t own me. No one does; I’m not about to become my mother; that’s for goddamned certain.”
“I would never—”
“Out!”
With a frustrated sigh, he reaches for the door handle and steps out, but as he looks back at me, there’s something vulnerable and hesitant in his stance—the way his shoulders are slightly slumped forward, the way his gaze softens as he tries to lean in and say something else—before I drive away.
