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UntilIwalkedinon them—Seb lying on the bed with his shirt off and Scarlett standing over him, her auburn hair a magazine-perfect contrast against the cornflower blue surroundings—there was a tiny part of me that was still holding on to a stupid, naïve, shred of hope that Victoria was lying. That Seb didn’t go off to a bedroom with Scarr—even though I know how close they are, and that I stumbled across them that time in the woods in each other’s arms, Seb’s pants unzipped halfway down his crotch. I still thought maybe I was wrong.
Now, I just feel sostupid. Like the joke those people at school accused me of being when they found out I was dating Sebastian Murdoch, telling me he was playing me, or that I was just a game for him—part of his “fuck-a-nerd” phase, as one guy so eloquently put it. Only their opinions didn’t bother me then, because I was so convinced they were wrong, and what they thought didn’t matter because they know nothing about my relationship with Sebastian.
Only it turns out, I’m the one who doesn’t know the real deal about my relationship with Sebastian. Because of course the assholes would turn out to be right. Of course, prince charming turns out to be a lying toad.
I don’t even wait until I get home to let the tears fall. I am a mess for the entire drive.
My phone rings five times and I ignore it five times. And when I don’t answer, a text comes in. From Seb, obviously.
The toad.
I don’t respond this time, and he doesn’t text again after that. Then, a few minutes after I get home, a text comes in from an unknown number.
I hate that Scarlett Thiels thinks she can tell me what I “need to do”, like I’m one of her fearful minions. But God, I also want to believe her. Even after everything, I still care enough that I want to be wrong. And I pick up my phone and text Seb back.
I tell myself it makes me a better person—that I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt and agreeing to hear him out.
But then, there’s another side of me—the side that’s been on high alert for enough years now to know a lot more about the way the world really works—that tells me giving him the benefit of the doubt just makes me an even bigger sucker than my own tormentors have accused me of being.
I turn off my phone. Turn off my lights. And cry myself to sleep.
Chapter Thirty-One
Caroline
Iamasucker.A loser with a capital L.
And Sebastian Murdoch is a toad.
Because nine o’clock comes and goes with no sign of him. No phone call. No text.
NOTHING.
Then ten o’clock.
Ten-thirty.
At ten forty-two, he calls.
I don’t pick up.
Ten forty-three, he calls again.
Ten forty-four. Another call.
Ten forty-five.Anothercall.
Ten forty-six, he texts.
Ten forty-seven, another phone call.
Ten forty-eight, another text.
Ten forty-nine, Jock Boy is still not getting the hint—that if he can’t be bothered to even wake up to meet me… if he sleeps through his alarm for the chance he begged me for, to explain himself over a situation where physical evidence pointed to a ninety-nine percent probability of his guilt, then it clearly isn’t really that important to him. And missing the meeting he begged me for is enough evidence that I was wrong to believe him in the first place.
Ten fifty-one, a text comes in from Maggs, proving my nine-fifteen a.m. declaration that Sebastian Murdoch is indeed a TOAD.
Ten fifty-two, I cry all over again. And I hate that this is my reaction. Because a strong woman would feel nothing but anger in a situation like this. And yet here I am just feeling so fuckinghurt.
