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I replay the morning in my head. Waking up and seeing him still there. My dreams had been filled with him, memories of our night together so vivid, I’d convinced myself there was no way they could be real. Then, when I woke up, he was there. His handsome face staring down at me, and I thought, “wow, it wasn’t a dream.”
I was so relieved until he opened his big, stupid mouth. And then he ruined what would’ve been a perfect morning. He ripped my heart into pieces, and I don’t even think he realizes it.
All that risk turned out not to be worth it after all.
My heart was not safe in his hands like I thought it would be. Now it’s more broken than I ever remember it being. I lean my head back against the door and close my eyes against the brightness coming in through the windows. I normally love how sunny it is here, but today I just want the day to be as miserable as I am.
I allow myself to cry for an hour before I push myself up and walk to my shower on wobbly legs. I’m going to wash away every memory of last night. Every touch, every kiss, every look. I don’t want to remember any of it.
In the shower, I scrub until my body is red and feels raw. Then I get out and move to my bedroom, ripping the sheets off my bed, stomping to my laundry closet, and shoving them into the washer.
But it’s not enough. The room still smells like him.
Fine. I can fix that.
I grab my cleaning supplies under my kitchen sink and go to town, deep cleaning my bedroom like I never have before. By the time I’m done it doesn’t even smell like me, let alone Trent. It smells like lemon. I can handle lemon.
When I go to put away the cleaning supplies, I notice that my hand is shaking. When I take stock of my body, I realize my stomach is also grumbling. A glance at the clock tells me it’s well past lunch and I never had breakfast. I grab a granola bar and then stare at my fridge for dinner options, but nothing sounds good. I don’t want to cook. I don’t want to do anything. Now that my cleaning spree is done, I feel drained, like every ounce of energy and happiness has been zapped right out of me.
I grab my phone to order takeout and stop in my tracks when I see a text message from Trent. No. Not today. Ignoring it, I order a pizza and wait for it to be delivered.
I grab a glass of wine and curl up in my reading chair that faces out so I can watch the view when I’m not using it to get lost in a book. A book doesn’t sound appealing right now, but neither does TV. Nothing sounds good. Nothing feels like it will fill the emptiness that Trent left behind this morning.
And suddenly it hits me—and hits me hard—what I’m feeling. Abandonment. Even if it doesn’t make sense, because he’s not technically abandoned me. He wants to be my friend.
But that’s all he wants.
And it’s not enough for me. I wanted more. I wanted him—all of him.
And for a perfect moment, I had him.
I can’t go back to just being his friend. I can’t pretend that I didn’t fall in love with him. That he didn’t make me feel things I’ve never felt before. No. I can’t go back to that.
It shouldn’t be hard to push him away. He leaves for tour in a few days, and he’ll be busy with that and filming the documentary.
My face goes slack. Oh fuck. I knew that was a risk, but I shoved the thought aside when we kissed. But now the weight of my stupidity is hitting me with the force of a category five hurricane. I’ll be organizing press interviews and all social media campaigns leading up to the premiere, which will require me to work very closely with Trent. I can delegate until the cows come home if I’m willing to risk my job, but being the lead on a project this huge could lead to a promotion. Work is the one place I actually feel confident in what I’m doing. I have my shit together at work. I can’t risk that. I’ve already taken one giant risk and look how well that turned out.
I take a sip of my wine, my brain going a mile a minute to figure out how I’ll handle being around him all the time for the duration of the previews and premiere, but then I realize that’s a problem for another day. They’ll be on tour for months and then add an extra month or two of editing before the documentary will even be ready. I’ve got time. Almost a year in fact.
By then hopefully I’ll be more put-together and over him.
I can only hope.
17
“Staring won’t make her text you back faster.”
I don’t bother responding to Tristan’s comment. I texted Becka yesterday, and she still hasn’t responded, which isn’t like her, and that sinking feeling in my gut gets worse.
“It’s not like her to not text me back.”
“Maybe she’s busy.”
She could be. I know she has a lot of responsibilities at work, and VibeTV has a lot of big original projects premiering here in the next few weeks. But she’s always been busy at work. That never stopped her from texting me before.
I mean, hell, I’m busy too. We leave for tour in five days, and there are a million things to do before we go, and yet I’m staring at my phone like a lovesick teenage girl.
“You gonna tell me what happened?”
