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She thinks I’m a monster? She has no idea.
Her jaw is set in a firm line. “That’s it. That was your fourth time. This is over now.”
How can she say that so casually? Like it doesn’t matter?
“Well?” she demands. “Wasn’t that the terms of our agreement? You’re the one who’s always bringing them up and throwing them in my face. How does it feel?”
“Rowan, I—”
“I don’t want to hear it. I’m tired of listening to men tell me after the fact why they couldn’t help but hurt me.” She slides off the bed, hunched over in a defensive position, pulling herself together. She walks like someone in pain, and another sharp blade of guilt slices its way into my heart. I did that to her. She isn’t some faceless, nameless stranger whose existence I was unaware of until this moment and will never cross my consciousness again.
“I’m going to my apartment. I’m not coming back to your house.”
That causes me to wince. I’m glad her back is to me so she can’t see. “Very well.” What am I supposed to do? Argue with her? Beg her to return? I see now that trying to come up with an offer that would make her continue our arrangement was pointless. She was in it for money, nothing else.
And now, I get the feeling I’ve destroyed whatever might’ve existed between us. Any hope she might have reconsidered and agreed to continue our strange relationship is obliterated.
I get up, dressing quickly. I can’t stand to be in this room, in this house, with her. There’s too much guilt and shame in the air. It makes it difficult for a man to breathe. Yet I can’t keep myself from sneaking looks at her, watching her as she slowly, carefully puts herself together.
“Is there anything else you would like to say to me? Anything you need to get off your chest?” This isn’t a kind question. It’s not made out of concern for her. So what is it, then? Maybe I want to punish myself. Maybe I deserve it. I must, or else why would I feel remorse? Until this point in my life, remorse has been as remote as the moon now shining through the windows.
She turns her head slightly, just enough to catch me out of the corner of her eye. “I never want to see you again. Don’t contact me. I want to forget this ever happened.”
I take this as well as I can, nodding once before going to the door. “Rick will be back to take you home. Anything you brought to the house will be dropped off to you in the morning and left at your front door.” She only grunts softly in response, which I choose to take as an affirmative before leaving her alone.
My car is parked behind the house, and I waste no time getting out to it. I text Rick that she is ready for pickup before I start my own car.
How could everything have gone so wrong? I can’t shake the feeling as I drive home, passing Rick along the way as he goes to fetch her, that I’ve destroyed the best thing that’s ever come into my life.
What a shame we only come to these realizations after the destruction has been done.
19
Rowan
How do I know if I have tetanus? That was the first thing on my mind when I woke up this morning—whether I might end up with tetanus because of that nail last night. Wouldn’t that be hilarious in a completely fucked-up way? After all this, everything Eric and Lucian, and everybody else in my life has put me through, I could end up dying from some stupid, rusty nail.
I scroll through the links my question pulled up, then skim the first article. A person can get a tetanus shot within three days of a wound and still be okay. So at least I have that going for me. I’m not going to drop dead from lockjaw or whatever.
Though if I’m not worried about that, I have nothing else to do but think about other things. Remember them. Obsess over them.
How could he do that to me? And how could he act surprised when I called him on it?
I have to stop torturing myself about him. We’re through. Finished. Four encounters and that’s it. I should be dancing around the apartment right now. Maybe I would if I didn’t have a fricking nail wound in my leg.
Maybe I would if the thought of never seeing Lucian again didn’t make me feel sort of empty inside. Or like I’m dangling in midair. Waiting to drop so my feet will touch something solid again. It’s not so much that I want to see him, really—I mean, he’s the last person I want to see right now. But the sense of there being unfinished stuff between us makes me uncomfortable.
