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~Mario Teguh
I didn’t make him wait long before I called, though some part of me thought I should make him suffer longer, I just didn’t have it in me.
I shut my eyes tight at the sound of his voice. I was in my bedroom at my apartment, sitting on my bed. I’d only gotten back from Seattle the day before, though I’d made my decision before my plane even touched down.
“Dante,” I breathed, my voice close to a sob. I felt so emotional and so desperate to get it out that I didn’t even wait for an opening. “Dante. My answer is yes. I want you to move to L.A.” I didn’t say anymore. I didn’t need to. If he came here for me, I’d be his. We both knew it, and I’d never been any good at expressing my feelings over the phone.
He was gasping on the other end, breaths so ragged that they punched into my ear like he was shouting.
“Scarlett,” he said once, his heart in his voice, hiding nothing from me.
But then, a few beats later, the strangest thing happened.
The tone of the call changed, the connection faltering as it lessened in quality, the background noise getting just a touch more static.
He’d switched it to speakerphone.
It was like déjà vu.
My hand pressed to my chest as the air seized in my lungs.
This has happened before, my mind recalled in horror, not even having to place the memory, because it was burned right there on my frontal lobe in a spot I could never misplace.
And his voice, when he spoke again had been stripped of all emotion. It was detached to the point of cold. “I’m sorry, Scarlett. I’ve thought about it, and it was all a mistake. What I proposed . . . is impossible.”
“What?” I breathed. “I don’t believe you.”
“Don’t you?” he asked, his indifferent tone ringing out hollow.
“And this was what? You messing with me? Revenge? Why would you do this?” My voice broke on the last word.
“You and I can never work,” he said simply.
My eyes were on my shaking hands. “This is really what you want?” I asked, and as I heard the words come out, heard how pathetic they were, I wanted to snatch them back.
“It was silly to think we could be together again. I’m sorry I put you through that, but it is impossible.”
And with that, he hung up.
A few days later, I pulled myself together enough to send him a small care package.
My return gift to Dante was not as fun as a pair of Louboutins, but it was far more valuable, and the note that went with it felt satisfying as hell when I wrote it.
Dante,
I know you love meaningless gestures. How’s this one for you?
Enjoy. Thanks for everything.
S, aka the hate of your life
P.S. There is not one more fucking thing we need to talk about. Ever.
P.P.S. Lose my number.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
