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… considered a threesome with women in Mario’s but ultimately couldn’t with his possessive new girlfriend watching…
Movement catches my eye as Hendrix comes out of the hallway, fully dressed, his duffel over his shoulder. He’d packed for his trip home to Columbus so he could leave from here.
I drop my iPad on the couch and scramble to intercept him. He pulls up short when I step in his path and tries to walk around me. I move as fast as he does, panic spurring me on.
My hands go to his chest. “Please… just listen to me.”
I almost start crying when he steps back quickly to avoid my touch, and I can see there’s more disdain than anger in his expression. I repulse him, and I don’t know how to make it right.
“I didn’t talk to that reporter,” I say, my words flying out of my mouth with urgency.
“Don’t fucking lie,” he snarls. “The article mentions Rachel, and that is the one piece of information only you know.”
The vomit rises again, but I swallow as Hendrix tries to move around me. “Wait… yes, I met with that reporter. But only for a few minutes to see what he wanted, and I didn’t tell him a single thing. I swear I didn’t.”
“I don’t believe you,” he says and fakes left. When I try to block him, he moves right faster than me to reach the door.
He unlocks it and jerks it open, a cold gust of December air hitting me, but I can’t feel it. I’m already frozen deep in my bones. I don’t know what to say, but apparently Hendrix does.
Spinning fast, he looks me up and down. “You’re a fucking piece of work, Stevie. You let me fuck you, hold you, bare my soul to you about my sister. You told me about all those horrible things your mom did to you, and I saw how hurt you were when the trust was broken. I know she’s been using you for months, and I actually was pained when you figured it out. But you know what?”
Tears pool in my eyes, and I can only shake my head.
“You’re only looking out for yourself.”
“That’s not true,” I insist.
“If it wasn’t true, you’d have never gone to meet a reporter. That right there was a betrayal… just making that decision to go. So anything you say means nothing to me, Stevie. Absolutely nothing. And all your talk of loving me… God, I’m a fucking idiot for believing it. I feel sorry for you because you don’t know how to love. Like mother, like daughter.”
If he’d slapped me in the face, it couldn’t have hurt more. I stumble back, the force of his words sapping every bit of my energy.
Hendrix turns for the door. I’m numb, physically weak, but I manage to say, “You said you loved me. You told me what we have is special and that we had to hold tight to it.”
It means nothing to him. Hendrix walks out, shutting the door quietly behind him, and I feel like my world has ended.
I don’t know how long I stand there in complete shock, but eventually I drop onto the couch. I stare at the tree for what seems like an eternity, and eventually, I pick up the iPad.
I attempt to read the article, but it’s so painful. It’s filled with stuff that yes, other people might know, but also facts only I’d know. I start and stop several times, interrupted by bouts of tears that obscure my vision while I try to breathe through the pain seizing my chest.
The worst are the pieces about Hendrix… intimate details about his sister Rachel’s death and how being the pallbearer for his best friend’s funeral was one of the hardest things he’s ever done.
I lean back on the couch and stare at the ceiling, trying to will a fresh bout of tears away.
How in the hell did Betta get that information when I didn’t…
Bolting straight up, I’m hit with the truth of how this came to be. I push up off the couch and run to my bedroom.
I make a beeline for the tall dresser where I laid my journal just two days ago. I’d written in it the morning after the Titans’ Christmas party and a few lines before I darted off to work. I’d already pulled the page out to gift to Hendrix the day before and had even wrapped it and put it under the tree.
But no… the journal’s gone.
That’s where I left it, right?
It’s what I remember—I was sitting in bed. Hendrix had already gone to the arena. The journal was on my bedside table, and I wrote a few lines. Then I got up and set it on the dresser.
Just to make sure, I tear my house apart. I yank open drawers, closets, pull back bedcovers. I look under my bathroom sink, behind furniture, and in all my kitchen cupboards.
