AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“It’s not an accusation if it’s true,” Shane huffs.
“One thing was true, but the other was a misunderstanding. And anyway…" I take a deep breath. "He wanted to clear things up between the three of us. You’re the one who punched first. There's no excuse for his violence afterward, there really isn't, but him beating you up is not the whole story. There's more to it."
Shane is obviously annoyed with my case. "But you aren't taking him back," he says with conviction, and when I don't answer, he smacks a flattened palm on the table. "Jesus, tell me you're not taking him back. The guy was a fucking man-whore. No pun intended."
I squirm in my seat. "Please don't make a scene. Sit down."
Every muscle in his body is still tense. His eyes never leave mine. "You can't take him back," he says, more to himself than to me.
I nod, then shake my head, then nod again. Ouch. That was not a wise thing to do.
"I'm not saying I will. I mean, I may take him back. If he'll still have me. But I'm not sure he's my biggest fan right now. I pissed him off."
Shane pretends to look shocked, slapping a hand over his mouth while his eyes bug out in disbelief. "No way. Are we still talking about the same Tyler Wilder? Because I clearly remember him being so stoic and composed."
Our food arrives and Shane still stares at me, while I tuck into my vegan tacos, pretending not to notice the way his pupils are boring holes in my face.
"You really love him," he says finally, and oh so very quietly. I nod without looking up, fighting back the tears.
"Dude." He runs his hand through his hair, rolling his eyes. "You really do love this loser."
Ty's a lot of things, but I'm pretty sure he isn't a loser. All the same, I confirm Shane's diagnosis with a hitched shoulder.
Then I hear him gritting his teeth. "Fine, but the next time I see him, I’ll punch him again for what he did to me, just for good measure."
Chapter Nineteen
My routine is a source of security for me. I hang on to it and remind myself that I’m still alive. I work, go to sleep and repeat. Ty doesn’t contact me, and even though that doesn't surprise me in the slightest—he's always been a man of his word—it’s slicing my soul to tiny pieces. Has he touched another girl yet? Has he moved on? I want to know. I don’t want to know.
Everything reminds me of him. Every smell, every face, every noise, everything that stimulates my senses. I’m living, but I'm not alive. And it’s not like I’m losing grasp on reality—I’m losing interest. I can live like this for years. Thirty, forty, fifty, maybe sixty and more. Apparently, after the excruciating pain, comes the numb. I’m at my numb phase.
I'm heart-crushingly numb.
Izzy tries to convince me to talk to Ty several times, but I refuse. I know he needs the time. Hell, I need the time too.
Nana Marty calls me a few times from Hawaii to ask how I’m doing and I always put on a brave face, letting her know that I’m okay. Mom and Dad have been asking me what’s up with my so-called boyfriend, but I think they’re relieved to find out I cut my ties with him and that he made it clear he’s done with me too.
Three weeks after Ty beat Eoghan Doherty, the XWL announces that he will face Brazilian Jesus Vasquez four months from now for the championship belt. They talk about the match-up in the local news, on the radio, and on the XWL and other MMA websites.
However, Ty is MIA in the media and my life, and I just have to deal with it.
A week after the news breaks, I lie in bed and binge-watch True Detective. Izzy is in LA, and I have the feeling she is going to move there by the end of the summer. I don't like it one bit. My internship is going to pay pretty much the same amount of nothing I earn at Ned's, and I have no idea where I’m going to live once she leaves.
When my doorbell chimes, I have no idea who could be at our door either. I drag myself out of bed and ask who it is. The answer makes my heart race.
“It’s Jesse.”
I open the door in my pj’s, my hair in a messy bun, face sans makeup.
He checks me out head to toe and shakes his head. “You look like shit.”
He is probably right. On a bad day like this (and I’ve recently had few of those), I’m very much the girl next door. Not the one you have a crush on—the one who spends her days playing with her dog in the backyard because she has zero friends.
