When we reach Daniel's building, my building, the one he owns, my legs turn to jelly.
"You good?" Reeves cuts the engine.
"No." I grip the door handle. "But let's do this anyway."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Daniel opens the door before I can knock. His face goes pale when he sees Reeves and Greg flanking me. Both of them are intimidating as all hell; both are about six feet four, man buns, tattoos and piercings. They look like they belong on theSons of Anarchyset.
Daniel's face twists into something ugly, his serious blue eyes hardening with indignation and rage as he takes in the scene before him—me flanked by two towering men who look ready to throw him through a wall. Really, he should be scared, but he doesn't seem to be. "What the hell is this?"
"Moving day." Reeves shoulders past him, forcing Daniel to step back. "We're helping Liza get her things."
"Liza, please." Daniel reaches for me. "We need to talk about—"
Reeves grabs his wrist, twists it away. "Don't touch her."
"This is my apartment. You can't just—"
"You hit her." Reeves steps closer, towers over him despite Daniel being six feet himself. "You put your hands on her. You think I'm going to let that slide?"
Daniel's face flushes. "She was with another man. She—"
"I don't give a shit what she did." Reeves shoves him, hard. Daniel stumbles backward and crashes to the floor. "How do you like that? How does it feel?"
Daniel looks up from the hardwood, eyes wide, shocked. Hurt.
I see something crack in his expression. Vulnerability. Pain. For a second, I almost feel bad for him.
Then I remember the slap. The blood. The coldness in his eyes when he called me a slut.
"Let's just get her stuff," Greg says quietly, already heading toward the bedroom.
It takes well over an hour. Clothes, books, my thrift store treasures. My pink plaid pants. The vintage jacket with the embroidered flowers. Everything that makes me, me. Everything Daniel hated.
When Reeves and Greg haul my armchair down to the truck—the one I found at an estate sale, the one Daniel called gaudy—I tear up. They get me. They really get me.
I'm alone with Daniel for a moment. He sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.
"Liza, please. I'm sorry. I never meant to—"
"To what? Hit me? Control me? Make me feel small?"
"I love you."
"No." I shake my head, continue folding a sweater. "You don't love me. You love the idea of who you wanted me to be."
"That's not true."
"Sit." I point at the bed.
He obeys.
I pack in silence for a beat, then speak. "I'm going to tell you a story."
"I was sixteen," I start, hands trembling as I fold some jeans. "Ethan—my brother, he lives in New York now, as you know—hetook me to a bush party. One of those crazy bonfire things with fifty kids getting wasted in the woods."
Daniel doesn't move. Doesn't speak.
