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Chapter 20
Cash
Thedefinitionofinsanityis doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Frank had warned me to stay away from Grace. He told me to get my head on straight before I reached out to her. He told me not to fuck her. And the minute my father sends me spiraling into self-loathing, what did I do? I called Grace, and rather than talking to her—rather than telling her I needed her comfort, not her body—I took what she offered and then some.
I fucking took everything from her, and I deserved none of it.
Staring over at the empty spot next to me in the bed, I slam my palm down in aggravation. There is a war going on inside my body—I feel like I am literally coming out of my skin, my stomach is in knots, my heart is in my throat—and I don’t have anyone to blame but myself.
I told her I loved her and she left anyway.
But you didn’t tell her you were sorry. You didn’t tell her you needed her to breathe. You didn’t tell her she’s still everything you want and nothing you deserve.
In the end, I told her nothing.
And then I told her it was just fucking.
Why did I do that? Why did I lash out? And why couldn’t she just answer me about Hayden?
I was ready to tell her how I felt. Ready to talk it out. But I was out of my mind with jealousy, and I just needed her to confirm that what I was feeling was real. I wanted her to tell me that it was over with Hayden. I needed to know that I wasn’t in this alone. That it wasn’t just sex. That she wanted me for more than a fucking booty call. If she’d just given me that, maybe I wouldn’t have lashed out. Maybe I would have admitted the truth—that I need her, that I miss her, that I’m still fucking in love with her.
I blow out a breath trying to stop the hammering in my chest. I think my heart is finally giving out. I’ve been dangling close to the edge for months. Last night when she said it was over, when she told me this was it, I saw it in her eyes. Defeat. Surrender. Goodbye.
Breathing in again, I stare up at the ceiling, waiting for my heart rate to settle. When it finally does, I pick up the phone and dial the only person I have left.
“Hey, Cash,” Frank says in his professional tone.
“Do you have a number?”
“A number?” Frank inquires.
I blow out a breath. It’s time to face the music. “For a therapist. Do you have someone in mind?”
