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He probably forgot about that, though. He seems to have crossed the past from his life.
“No, you shouldn’t have. I hated them as much as I hate you.” He leans close, so close that I breathe in his air. “You also shouldn’t have come here after everything that went down.”
“It wasn’t on purpose.”
“We’ll rectify that then. Get out and don’t ever come back. If we meet by chance, pretend you don’t fucking know me. I’ll do the same.”
A hiccup the size of a ball gets stuck in my throat, but instead of bawling my eyes out in front of him, I run out of his office.
Out of his reach.
Out of his toxic presence.
Then I finally let the tears loose.
Just like I did eleven years ago.
13
NICOLE
AGE EIGHTEEN
Three months.
It’s been three whole months and two weeks since that night everything went terribly wrong.
Except for the popping my cherry part—yeah, that one went perfectly right.
It’s probably the rightest thing that’s happened to me after being born.
The only thing that’s surpassed my every fantasy.
And that’s where the problem lies. Due to being an experience out of magic land—or filthy land—semantics—I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Not even after Daniel ditched me like a used condom—that he didn’t put on while deflowering me or the gazillion times after.
I still think about the people who looked at me as if I’m a nutcase and should be admitted to a psych ward for sitting at the step of a literally burning mansion.
The similarities weren’t lost on me and they were probably right. After all, I sat on those steps, watching the entrance like a pole dancer watches the Queen’s notes.
I didn’t blink, didn’t move, and definitely didn’t pay attention to the chaos unfolding around me.
It’s how unhealthy obsessions work. The world kind of ceases to exist, and the only time it does is when it’s working as a vessel for the subject of my obsession.
Who, if you didn’t gather already, didn’t show up.
The one who did was my mother. She grabbed me by the elbow and kind of shoved me into her car, which was very unlike her. Showing any violent behavior, even while enraged, is very unladylike-like.
I chalked it up to the fact that she was mad for finding me in the process of killing myself.
Daniel didn’t call or text that night. Granted, we don’t have each other’s numbers.
Correction—he doesn’t havemynumber. I stole his from Astrid’s phone when she was too careless to leave it unlocked three years ago.
He’s gone through an excessive change of nomenclatures on my phone since then.
Lollipop.
