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He isn’t going to be mine.
Not when his fucking ex-girlfriend owns his head.
“Still think I can talk you out of this.” Dean motions to the other side of the divided street. “Not too late to make a u-turn.”
My heart thuds against my chest. It’s tempting. God, how it’s tempting. Some of Ryan is better than none. That’s what I decided a long time ago.
And it was.
But it’s not anymore.
I need all of him.
I’m not sure when it changed, but it did.
“You can’t.” My fingers trace Ryan’s words. I’m here if you want to talk. All night.
“He text you again?”
“No.”
“Uh uh. No way he let ‘safe’ slide.”
“He did.” Sort of. He knows I’m a scared little bird, that I have to be coaxed into opening up.
He knows exactly how to play me.
Even when I’m running away from him.
“Bullshit.”
“He said we can talk.”
“Let’s go back to the hotel. Talk.”
“I should have taken a cab.” Even if this conversation is the only thing holding me together.
Dean cares. About me and about Ryan.
It’s on the surface today. There’s no façade. Just concern.
It’s fucking terrifying—Dean is never serious—but it’s comforting too. He’s a good friend. He’ll make sure I’m okay.
I stare at my cell as commercials fade into music. A Foo Fighters song. It’s familiar. A song the LA rock station plays every hour.
My fingers glide over my cell.
Leighton: Did you realize you love me?
The words are even more pathetic in digital form.
He’s made it clear he doesn’t love me.
I’m not going to beg him.
I deserve a scrap of dignity.
Dean turns. Studies my cell. Shakes his head. “You know it’s more than that.”
