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It sucks to realize that it was all one sided.
With nothing else left to talk about, I twist around and restart the engine before pulling out of the parking lot and onto the road.
And just like before, neither of us say a word.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Carina
Air leaks from my lungs as I stare sightlessly at the ceiling. When the alarm on my phone rings like an obnoxious bell, I roll over, swipe my cell from the nightstand, and tap the screen before returning to my back.
I should get out of bed. Dance starts in forty minutes, but I have zero motivation to get dressed or leave my room. It’s been that way since I pulled the plug on my relationship with Ford.
For more than a week, we’ve been going to great lengths to avoid each other. Not even when he pushed me away in high school did it feel like this. There’s a giant gaping hole where my heart should be. I don’t understand how it’s possible to miss him this much. It’s like I severed a limb and will now have to live the remainder of my life with phantom pain.
Everything reminds me of him.
His scent on my pillows.
Dancing.
The book he left for me on the bed to find.
The jersey he bought me that’s draped over my chair.
It’s ridiculous.
I’ve slept with guys before and I’ve had a handful of relationships. Most didn’t last that long, or I was never very invested to bother sticking around. When they came to an inevitable end, it was more of a relief than anything else. The guys in question were never important.
They didn’t mean anything.
Not really.
But…
That’s not how I feel about Ford.
And here I’d thought I was guarding my heart so carefully.
Turns out that nothing could be further from the truth.
I grab a fluffy pillow and drag it over my face before screaming at the top of my lungs until there’s nothing left inside.
The door to the bedroom bursts open and a deep voice says, “Are you all right?”
I rip the pillow away only to stare at Ryder.
His brows are raised, and concern is etched across his face. His gaze darts around the room as if looking for the cause of my anguish. When he doesn’t find a culprit, his eyes resettle on me, and his frown deepens.
Great. He probably thinks I’m losing it.
And maybe I am.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry,” I mutter, feeling like an idiot. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He shifts his big body in the doorway, looking distinctly uncomfortable as if only now realizing I’m in emotional distress. “You didn’t.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Juliette’s taking a shower. Otherwise, she’d be here.”
In an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, I arch a brow. “And you’re not in there with her?”
