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Fucking him three times last night did, too. Very good. But so did telling him I love him, and hearing him say it back, and knowing deep in my soul how true it is.
I’ve spent ten years telling myself I hated him for the same reason he apparently did concerning me: because admitting to myself that I was hurt because of what I felt for him was too hard. It was much easier to think of him as a callous, manipulative asshole who slept with me and then ignored me forever.
But now the truth is out there.
As if on cue, my phone rings for the millionth time. I glance down and grit my teeth as I silence it.
The truth is out there, including exactly how backstabbing and cruel my own sister is. I know Camille has issues with abandonment, and needs to feel important, like everyone’s catering to her. But there’s a line, and what she did falls about a solar system’s length past that line.
So fuck her.
One day, maybe, we’ll talk about what she did—both to Alistair and to me. But not today.
Tomorrow’s not looking great, either.
I might pencil her in for about a decade from now. Maybe.
A few minutes of blissful silence later, my phone lights up with another call from Camille. Then again. And then again, all in a row. I’m about to turn the fucking thing off, when I jump at the sound of a fist pounding on the front door of Alistair’s loft.
I pad quietly to the door of Alistair’s bedroom and crack it open. The landing outside looks down through the open loft below, affording me a clear view of the front door.
Massimo?
The knock comes again, loudly.
I texted him last night, telling him I was “sorry we’d fought”, but that I was upset and felt we “needed space”, so I was staying in a hotel. All I got in response was “fine”, then another text this morning telling me he was going to be working late.
The knock comes again, making my nerves jangle.
It’d be insane if it was Massimo. And near impossible. Why would he even think to look for me at?—
“Eloise!! I know you’re in there! We need to talk!”
What. The. Fuck.
My blood turns to fire at the sound of my sister’s voice from outside.
“Eloise!! Please! Please, just let me explain!!”
I don’t march down because I have any interest in talking to her. I march down so she shuts the hell up and stops screaming my name for every neighbor within a four-block radius to hear.
Camille gasps when I yank the door open in her face.
“What,” I snap coldly.
She immediately puts on one of her “faces”, her mouth drooping and her eyes watering. It’d be touching, even somewhat heartbreaking, if I hadn’t seen it a thousand times before. If I didn’t know it was bullshit.
Honestly, somewhere in an alternate universe, Camille is an award-winning actress.
“Hi,” she chokes.
“If you go into your theatrics, I’m shutting this door right now.”
The “trauma” face instantly vanishes. Her lips purse.
“Can I come in?”
I almost say no. I almost do slam the door in her face.
