“I’m glad you called.”
Something tightens in my throat. “Me too.”
I end the call and lower the phone slowly. The apartment is quiet again. The shower has stopped.
I turn—
And my stomach drops.
Millie is standing at the end of the hallway, hair damp, wearing one of my shirts. Her eyes are blazing with a fire I’ve never quite seen before.
Chapter Five
Millie
I stand in the middle of the living room for exactly three seconds after Wilder hangs up the phone.
Three seconds where I think—stupidly—that maybe I misunderstood. But the guilt in his face is all the confirmation I need..
He wants me gone.
The thought hits so hard it steals the breath from my lungs. My vision blurs, and before I even realize it, I’m moving, I turn and run straight down the hallway. My feet feel numb. My hands are shaking.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
I reach the bedroom and shut the door behind me, but the second the latch clicks, the tears come anyway.
Of course he wants me gone.
What was I thinking?
I cross the room and drop to my knees beside the bed, pulling my old backpack from underneath it. The fabric is frayed and faded, one zipper barely hanging on. I’ve carried this thing for years. It’s the only thing that’s ever been mine for long.
My hands move automatically as I start packing. I fold my worn clothes. The ones I came here with. The ones that smell like cheap detergent and old fear. I leave the new things Wilder bought me. The jeans that actually fit. The soft sweaters. The shoes that don’t hurt my feet.
I don’t deserve those.
My chest tightens harder at the thought.
I reach into the dresser and pull out the envelope with my first paycheck. I haven’t spent any of it yet. I tried to give it to Wilder for rent, but he refused. I thought it meant something. I thought it meant he wanted me here.
Now I see the truth. He was just being kind. Just helping until he could send me somewhere else.
A sob escapes before I can stop it. I press my hand over my mouth, but it doesn’t help. The sound is ugly and broken.
My mind spirals.
I can go to a shelter. I’ve done it before. Or maybe one of the girls at the diner will know someone renting a room. Maybe I can sleep on a couch for a while. I’ll figure it out. I always do.
Because no one ever keeps me.
My mother didn’t. Why would Wilder?
I hear the bedroom door open, but I don’t stop packing.
“What are you doing?” Wilder’s voice is low. Controlled. Too controlled.
I don’t answer. I keep packing, blinking hard so I can see through the tears.
