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“Can we drop this now?”
“I don’t think you’re telling me the truth about why you stopped teaching.” The words blurt out of me before I can stop them.
Tyler’s eyes instantly harden. “Are you ready to sit and tell me everything about your past?”
“No.”
“Then don’t expect me to tell you everything about mine. And definitely don’t expect it when you still look at me as your fuck buddy.”
My lips form an ‘o.’ Shock—that’s what I’m feeling right now. Shock that he came right out and said it… Especially after what I admitted to him last night.
Yeah, I was drunk. Yeah, I was high off an orgasm. That doesn’t make what I said any less true.
That doesn’t mean my addiction isn’t grabbing hold of him, obsessing over him, desiring him.
It doesn’t mean I’m not.
“You know that isn’t true,” I say in a small voice.
“No, I don’t. What you said to me last night doesn’t tell me how you look at me. I’m a fucking addict, Liv. I’ve had sex with a whole bunch of bloody people I don’t see as anything more than a quick shag.”
A lump forms in my throat. I swallow once, twice, three times, but it doesn’t go away. It lingers, heavy, full of emotion.
“And me? Is that how you see me?”
“Don’t turn this shit round on me. You know exactly how I feel about you.”
I stand and lift my hand to run it through my hair before dropping it lamely when I remember that it’s up. “No. No, you know what, Ty? I don’t have a fucking clue because you’ve never actually told me. So until you’re ready to tell me, don’t sit there and tell me how I see you. Don’t sit there and fucking berate me for not telling you how I feel when you haven’t done it yourself.”
I turn and walk to the door, grabbing my phone and keys from the kitchen counter as I do.
“Who’s the one who fights going on a date, Liv? It isn’t me!”
I yank his door open and look at him over my shoulder. “Dates are what you do with someone you’re interested in getting to know. And until you know why I fight your dates, don’t sit there all righteous and fucking judge me.”
His door slams loudly behind me, echoing in the empty hallway. I step into the elevator, my hands shaking, my heart pounding, my lungs constricting tightly.
I clench my fists and press my knuckles into my eyes. Breathe. One to ten. Breathe.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.
The elevator doors open.
Ten.
I glance around, stupidly expecting him to be here although he has no reason to be. Why would he be? Sex. That’s what we agreed.
Except I really never should have agreed. It’s because of that split-second decision that I now can’t breathe. It’s why I have tears burning the back of my mind and my fingers are itching to press the buttons on the elevator.
Why every part of my being wants to travel back up there and run into him and beg him to glance over all my crap, just for now, and stay.
Why my stomach is twisting with the thought of not touching his skin, not hearing his voice, not having anything to do with him other than official wedding duties.
It’s why my addiction is taking hold, clamping down on me. Trying to force me to do what I know is wrong.
I 0stand in the middle of the lobby for what seems to be the longest few minutes of my life. I ignore everyone around me, ignore the doorman asking me if I’m okay.
Then I look up, I turn, and I walk out of the door.
