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My chin quivers treacherously. “She told me everything.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and lets out an audible exhale. Opening them, he stands up and says in a low voice, “I can explain.”
He can explain? I don’t know what I expected—denial, maybe—but not this.
I push him, but I might as well try to push a brick wall. “Stay away from me.”
His chocolate gaze looks pained. Oscar-winning acting again. “Kislik, I—”
“Don’t call me that! Don’t call me anything.”
He reaches for my hand. “If we could just—”
“Stop!” I jerk my hand away. My heart feels like it’s shattering into pieces. “I’m done with this charade. Goodbye.”
Turning on my heel, I run. Art chases after me, shouting something, but I pick up the pace until I’m full-out sprinting in my heels. My heartbeat hammers so loudly in my ears I can’t even make out his lies—and I’m glad.
I’ve heard enough of them.
Dashing through the exit, I spot a cab idling next to the sidewalk, with Honey inside. She’s holding the door open and waving at me.
I dive into the cab, and we torpedo forward as I struggle to catch my breath. My leg muscles burn and my feet feel like they’ve been rubbed raw, but it’s nothing compared to how I feel inside.
“Where are we headed?” I ask in a hollow voice after a minute.
“Home,” Honey says sympathetically.
Home? I don’t actually have a home. What I’ve been thinking of as “home” is the place where Art and I pretended to live together. My old shithole is stripped of my stuff and subleased out, so it’s not a home in any sense of the word.
Some of this must show on my face because Honey squeezes my hand, “I meant my place.”
“Oh. Thanks.” The stinging in my index finger returns, so I stick the digit into my mouth. It tastes coppery, like blood.
“What are you doing?” Honey’s eyes are on my finger as her face grows pale.
“Paper cut from the marriage certificate,” I say in a strained voice. “It wasn’t enough to make me bleed metaphorically. It had to do it for real, too.”
Upon hearing the word “bleed,” Honey turns ghostly white. “Can I ask you a huge favor?”
I blink at her. “Sure. What is it?”
“First, promise you won’t ask any questions.”
I nod. I don’t have the energy to interrogate anyone anyway.
“I don’t want to see that finger… especially if there’s blood.”
“Why?” I stare at her, momentarily distracted.
“No questions. You promised.”
Okay, whatever. I hide my offending finger in the folds of my dress.
The only explanation I can think of is that she’s got a problem with blood, but that would be strange. She’s famous for cutting people who cross her. Well, she cut one girl in high school, at least. Still, you can’t exactly cut a bitch if the sight of said bitch’s blood would trouble your delicate sensibilities.
Under normal circumstances, I’d grill her mercilessly, but I don’t have the slightest inclination to do so now. Instead, my thoughts turn to Art and his lies, and the burning behind my eyelids returns.
Don’t cry. Don’t freaking cry. He’s not worth it.
