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Oh, vodka. I grimace as I clutch onto the door, faintly remembering sending those texts. The idea about quitting isn’t as faint, though. I’ve been thinking about that for more than a few days. Guess I just needed some alcohol and a serotonin deficiency to finally send it.
“Garrett, what’s going on?”
Fuck it. “Yeah, I just think it’s time for me to move on from Salacious. It does fine without me—"
“No.”
“What do you mean no?” I laugh.
“I mean no.”
“Emerson, you can’t stop me from—"
“What happened with Mia?” He tries to peek around me again.
“Nothing. We’re not…together. We were just fucking.”
“Bullshit. What happened?”
I scoff. “You’re being an asshole today,” I joke, but my head is splitting, and the sooner I get rid of him, the sooner I can go back to bed, where it’s dark and quiet. And there are no friends invading my privacy and bossing me around.
“Why don’t you get showered and come into the club with me?”
“I told you I’m not feeling well,” I mutter, not hiding the irritation in my voice anymore.
“Yeah, well, I think getting out of here might help.”
“Tomorrow.”
He’s staring at me, his brow furrowed, and for a moment, I almost hate him. Because he has no fucking idea.
And just when I think he’s about to give up and walk away, he shoves past me and mutters, “I’m not leaving.” Then, he marches right into my messy apartment.
“Emerson, what the fuck?” The door closes behind me as I follow him into my kitchen, grimacing at the pile of dishes in the sink and the barely-touched spoiled lasagna on the counter.
“You don’t want to go to work, that’s fine. But at least go take a shower. I’ll wait.” I’m mortified as he picks up a bag of two-day-old takeout and tosses it in the garbage. Anger boils in my veins as I glare at him. The fucking audacity of this guy.
“Get the fuck out of my apartment,” I bark.
Turning toward me, he replies, “No. You want me out, you'll have to throw me out.” As he crosses his arms and glares at me, I realize this motherfucker is serious. I’m not a goddamn idiot; I know why he’s doing this, why he won’t leave, and it’s humiliating. He’s treating me like a child, so I heave a sigh before I actually consider trying to wrestle this well-dressed millionaire out of my apartment.
“Emerson, I’m fine, okay? You don’t have to babysit me.”
“Well, I’m not leaving.”
“I’m telling you I’m fine, dammit.” My voice comes out louder than I wanted it to, but he doesn’t even flinch.
“I’m sorry, Garrett. But I can’t leave.”
“I’m not a fucking child. And I don’t want you to see me like this. So please, just fucking go.” I’m putting up a good fight, but the spiral is too strong—definitely stronger than me.
The asshole in the suit standing in my kitchen doesn’t even budge. Okay, now I really do hate him. A lot.
I hate the fact that for ten years, he’s been too nice to me. Always checking in when I’d ghost for a day or two, always asking too many questions, or trying to care when I clearly didn’t want him to. But he’s never done this. Then again…it’s been a long time since I wasthisfar gone.
And as much as I hate him, I hate letting him down even more. Which is the only reason I relent to his annoying fucking request.
“You want me to go shower? Fine!” Spinning toward my bedroom, I slam the door so hard a picture falls off the wall in my room. Great, now I’m throwing a tantrum like a child. On the bright side, this is the most energy I’ve used in the last two weeks. But it does nothing for my splitting headache.
