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I was too distracted before the flash went off to notice the paparazzi hiding in the shrubs on the opposite side of the street. I hadn't seen the lens of the camera jutting out from between the leaves as I stood at the gates to the cemetery, willing myself to go inside.
But I couldn't bring myself to do it.
I haven't been inside since the funeral.
Haven't felt the desire to…until this morning.
My therapist would say it's because I haven't properly mourned my daddy's death yet.
She'd probably be right, but the truth is, I don't know how to. Reminders of that phone call and the ugly things he accused me of get tangled up in the memories of him teaching me how to ride a bike when I was four or singing old-school country songs to help me fall asleep at night.
I don't know how to grieve for him.
Because I don't know which version of him to grieve for.
In some ways, I mourned the loss of my loving father before his actual death. I've had six years to realize that that man is gone, but it wasn't until he actually died that I realized I'd never get him back. Until the moment his heart gave out, I'd held out hope that the man who raised me, the father who kissed my boo-boos better and scared the monsters in my closet away, would call me up one afternoon and tell me to come home.
He never did.
And it wasn't until Cole helped me comprehend what truly happened in that talent agent's office that I began to understand why Dad's reaction hurt me the way it did. I felt abandoned, even though I believed when he said what happened was my fault. I felt betrayed, even though I didn't know why.
But I do now.
So, I came here this morning thinking that maybe I could talk to him and say all the things I wish I could've said to him while he was still alive. I was hoping that visiting his grave might bring me closure.
Turns out, I couldn't even make it through the gates.
And now, in the midst of it all, a photographer has managed to find me in the one place I felt safe from paparazzi.
Tomorrow, that picture will be online for the world to see, the trauma etched into my face displayed on screens in high definition. People in the comments will speculate about what's happened to me. They'll start rumors of a drug addiction or wonder if my non-boyfriend Aiden has broken up with me already. They'll pick apart my appearance and someone will inevitably call me fat, even if my clothes hang more loosely off my body now than they have in months.
It's unavoidable.
This is just how it works in my world.
With my hands still held up around my face, I make my way back to the rental car parked a little way down the street and take the long way home to Cole's house, just in case the pap is following me.
It isn't until I'm letting myself through the front door that I realize my already shitty day is about to get even shittier.
* * *
There's a woman in Cole's living room.
She's standing with her back to me, facing the man I've been sleeping beside every night for the last several days as he watches her from his seat on the sofa.
She's taking off her clothes.
Or rather, she's already taken off her clothes and is standing before him in nothing more than lingerie and strappy tie-up heels.
Neither of them seem aware of my presence.
I can't see Cole's face from my position where I'm frozen in shock in the doorway. I can only see the pert roundness of the woman's ass and the feminine, over-arched curve of her spine.
There's a heaviness inside me as I stand here, tugging my heart down into my stomach, sinking it like a rock through dark waters. My eyes burn from the sight of them, my breath caught somewhere between my chest and throat.
He was inside of me this morning.
Just before I left to go to the cemetery, he was buried inside of me with his hands on my body and his lips on my skin. He knew where I was going. Maybe he thought I'd be out for longer—I don't know. Maybe that's the kind of man he is now and I've been too blinded by my feelings to see it.
