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The tears flow, the pain only growing stronger the longer I sit here. I’m strong, at least I thought I was until I was faced with the reality of being alone and wandering through life without anyone by my side. I didn’t have love, but I had enough physical things to make more than half the population of the world envious.
I can’t survive this life, and even in my head that sounds elitist and stupid, but homelessness is a real fear. I don’t know if I have the ability to let things get that far without crawling back home and proving my parents right. No doubt my mother would have a lot to say if I showed my face on her doorstep once again.
It’s the determination not to give her that sense of satisfaction that makes me stand from my curled position on the floor. The plate of Thai food Flynn brought that was once a temptation to devour is now cold and gross, and I feel guilty for wasting it. The old side of me wouldn’t care, but the newer, more frugal side of me wonders if it would be okay to reheat.
Regardless of what I plan to do with it, I can no longer sit in this room smelling it. Using the bottom of my shirt, I once again wipe my eyes. They feel like sandpaper, rough and scratchy from crying so long, but it matches the pain in my throat and the cracks in my heart I’m certain will never heal. When and if they do, hopefully it will form scar tissues, something that will harden me from getting hurt again.
With the plate in one hand, I make my way to the door, wiping at my eyes once again. The tears continue to fall, rolling down my cheeks in fat drops with no signs of slowing. The sight of Flynn leaning against the wall doesn’t surprise me, but when he looks up at me, cheeks wet with his own tears, devastation in his eyes, it almost has the power to make my knees buckle.
“It kills me to hear you hurting.” His throat sounds as raw as mine feels. “Guts me to know I caused it.”
I open my mouth to argue, to tell him he’s only a blip on my radar of agony, but once again, I promised myself I’d stop lying.
I walk away, heading toward the kitchen to deal with the uneaten plate of food. His plate, the one he brought to my room earlier sits untouched on the counter. I set mine down alongside it, placing my hands flat on the marble countertop, head hung low. I’m too raw, too close to going back to him and begging him to promise all the things he said were true, to make him swear he isn’t playing games or just getting a thrill by making me believe he cares. His words sounded sincere, but I’ve been burned too many times, taken advantage of more times than I can count, and those were from friends and acquaintances, not someone who dug inside of me and took part of my heart and claimed it as their own.
Stay as long as you want. A day, a month, the rest of your life.
My broken little heart pounds with the thought, with the idea that he could possibly mean it, that he could want me here knowing I have nothing to offer in return. I no longer have VIP access to the hottest clubs or a swimming pool that would make Olympic swimmers jealous. I no longer have a mansion or enough money to ensure everyone around me has a good time. He won’t get close to my parents, get a foot in the door in Hollywood by being with me.
He would get me and that’s it.
I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to stay strong, but then images of his smiling face flash in my mind. And like a movie reel, it all comes flooding back. The kisses, the way he resisted me, trying to stay professional, trying to keep his distance like he knew crossing that line with me would be more, mean more, than just a night with a starlet’s daughter, more than a conquest to brag to his friends about. The way he protected me, chased after me and was ecstatic when he caught me, simply to have his arms around me rather than happy he did his job. The nights on the sofa watching stupid movies. The way he got territorial when Kyle was sniffing around the night before my birthday party. The way he fought resisting me like he warred with himself and lost the battle every time because he found me irresistible.
Jesus, the look in his eyes when he made love to me the first time, how I felt it then. All the things he’s said since, the promises, the assurances that he isn’t going anywhere. It’s all there, all lined out for me. Am I fool enough to walk away, to let my pride get in the way?
