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“I don’t know. Dave’s. John’s. Any of the girls you’ve been fucking behind my back.” All great suggestions, in my opinion. “Quite frankly, I don’t give a shit where you go.” I grace him with a patronizing smile and lift one shoulder, letting it drop. Not my monkey, not my circus. Not anymore, at least.
Rolling his eyes, he crosses over to me with two long strides. I rip my hands from his slimy grasp the second his fingers curl around mine, instead turning away. I can’t look at him right now. I don’t want to see him, not now, not ever.
“It was one fucking time, Claire!”
“Bullshit!” It’s as close to a growl as one can possibly get. The anger is rolling off me in palpable waves. I feel ridiculously like an X-Man right now, like if I concentrate just hard enough, my rage might be enough to send him flying right through the door. Wishful thinking, right? “Do you know how many stories I’ve heard in the last twenty-four hours?”
Too many. Clearly, I should have taken heed the first time rumors flew around about him getting down and dirty with someone else. But I was naive.
No, naive isn’t even the right word. Just stupid. I was stupid. And blind.
“And you’re believing them over me?”
My jaw drops. He cannot be serious. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“I love you,” Aaron pleads, eyes begging.
I scoff. It’s fitting. This whole scene right here is ridiculous. “Doubt it, but either way, you probably should have thought about that before you fucked somebody that wasn’t me.” Striding to the door, I kick his things out of the way with maybe a little more force than necessary, swinging the door open. I sweep my hand out in front of me with a quiet sigh. “Get out, Aaron.”
His mouth gapes. I want to punch it. “You’re serious.”
I give him a clipped nod, trying like hell to keep my voice steady. “I’m serious. Take your shit and go.”
His shoulders drop and he makes a noise, halfway between a sigh and snarl. Muttering something I couldn’t give two shits, he picks his bags up off the floor. Pausing in the doorway, one finger tapping on the frame, he looks back at me.
“Could you at least take a few days, think about it? We can’t just be over, Claire. Please.”
I hesitate, staring into the handsome face of the man I’ve loved for the last three years, give or take. Aaron studies me, considers the fact that it looks like I might be wavering, and his lips start to curve up into that smug, jerky smile that I fucking loathe.
And that’s all it takes. With the roll of my eyes, I slam the door in his face, flipping the lock behind him.
“Claire!”
“Bye asshole,” I whisper, grabbing a bottle of wine off the counter and stalking into my bedroom.
I flop down on my bed, the bottle rolling into my side as I stare at the ceiling.
“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging my palms down my face. My eyes are stinging, my nose crinkling, that familiar tell-tale sign that lets me know I’m about to ugly-sob.
“Don’t you dare, Claire,” I tell myself. “Don’t waste your time.”
I’ve already wasted three years; I’m sure as hell not giving him anything more.
Unfortunately, my brain, body, and heart are rarely ever on the same page. One lone tear sneaks out the corner of my eye and trails a hot path down my cheek, curving around my neck. I squeeze my eyes shut as if that’s going to stop the rest of them from coming.
It doesn’t.
I’m snotting all over myself—it’s not attractive—when my phone starts vibrating in my back pocket. I’m tempted to chuck it across the room, stomp on it, flush it down the toilet, but there’s a tiny part of my brain that hasn’t been screwed by my entire world being turned upside down, and that part still has some logic left in it. So instead, I breathe a sigh of relief when my best friend’s beautiful face lights up my screen.
“Charlee?” I drag the back of my hand across my face, wiping at something wet and slimy. I’m a sight to be seen right now, I’m sure of it.
“Hey gorgeous,” she says softly.
Here’s the thing about Charlee: she’s amazing and kind and generous with the people she loves. But she’s also hard as hell. She tells it like it is and gives it to me good when she thinks I need it, which is sometimes often. Which was definitely this morning. She keeps me in check. So, when she’s ultra-soft with me, when she’s treading water instead of drowning me in it, that’s when you know whatever happened was bad enough that she’s truly worried about sending me off the deep end.
I don’t say anything, just choke on a sob.
“Be there in fifteen,” is all she says before the line goes dead.
