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He just raises a brow. Inclines his head. Waits for my answer. Like I’m a defendant in some court case and he’s the judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into one.
“I have no idea why he would think we have a date. He texted me earlier, told me he had a lot of fun with us last night and that we should do it again. I agreed that it was fun. That’s all the interaction we’ve had.”
I take a step back into the apartment, let the heavier of my bags slip through my fingers to the floor. “Is that what this is all about? Are you jealous?”
“I’m not jealous. I just need to know where I stand with you.”
“Where you stand? I thought we were best friends who were finding a way to become lovers.”
My gut clenches even as I give him the description. Because, to be honest, I don’t know what we are. I know what I had hoped we were—friends cruising carefully toward being boyfriend and girlfriend since there’s a lot of past between us—but obviously, I’m the only one who felt that way. Why else would he be doing this? Why else would he think I’d start dating someone else the second his back was turned? Not even turned—he was right there at the bar with me last night when I was talking to Josh.
His face falls. For long seconds he doesn’t say anything, but then he whispers, “Is that what you really want?”
“I think I’ve made it fairly obvious what I want,” I tell him. “You’re the one who’s all over the place.”
“Can’t you just give me a straight answer for once? Please. Stop complicating things.”
“I gave you a straight answer. You just choose not to believe me. Besides, I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You’re here because you have nowhere else to go, not because you necessarily want to be with me.”
His words slash at me, cut like jagged knives.
“So that’s what this is about then? You think I’m using you?”
“What am I supposed to think?” he demands, shoving a frustrated hand through his hair.
“Why else would you avoid me for months and then show up here the way you did if you had anywhere else to go?”
“For the record, you’re the one who avoided me for months. And what? I’m sleeping with you as some kind of twisted payback? So not only am I a pathetic loser, I’m also a whore?”
“Stop putting words in my mouth.”
“Dude, I don’t have to put words in your mouth. You’re putting them there all by yourself. After everything we’ve been together, after all the shit we’ve been through, you don’t trust me. And you sure as hell don’t trust what I thought we were trying to build together.”
He looks pained, but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t deny it. And that is the final nail in the coffin for me. Snow bunnies are a dime a dozen out here. If all he really wants is to get laid without any complications, he won’t have any problem doing just that. I ignore the pain the thought causes me as I bend down and pick up the bag I dropped earlier.
“I can’t do this,” I tell him. “Not now, not with you. I’m done, Luc. Done. I’m so fucking done.”
This time when I open the door, he doesn’t try to stop me. But then, I never really thought he would.
Chapter 14
Luc
3 MONTHS LATER
I wake up to the sound of snow falling. Pushing back the covers, I untangle myself from the pillow I was clutching and the covers I somehow got wrapped up tightly in when I slept.
I don’t remember much about last night or what happened after I got back here. I went out with Ash—he told me he was sick of watching me sit at home drowning my fucking sorrows. So we went out to eat and then caught a movie—something with plenty of blood and violence—and things were going pretty well, I think, at least
until I saw a girl with red curls from behind and for an instant—just an instant—thought it was Cam.
It shot the whole night, and I ended up at the closest bar, drinking myself into oblivion. Again. And yes, I’m aware of just how fucking pathetic that sounds. But I’ve never been one to hide from the truth and right now, the truth is, I am fucking pathetic. Exercising all day so that I don’t think about her, drinking all night so I can forget about her. It’s not a great system, but it’s working well enough. At least it staves off the loneliness for a little while, lets me sleep. All of which is way better than the first month after she left, when I couldn’t shut my brain off enough to sleep for more than a random hour or two at a time.
And the side effects—the hangovers in the morning and the inability to even look at myself in the mirror—are minor enough. At least compared to the crushing pain that slams through me every time I think about the fact that Cam really isn’t coming back.
A glance at my phone tells me it’s early. Really early, which is why it’s still pitch black outside. Still there’s no way I’m going back to bed now. Not when the first snow of the season is going on right outside my fucking door. Not when, for the first time in three months, I feel a glimmer of something besides despair.
