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‘Do I need to ask your permission?’
But Jess and Em exchange a look and I can’t bear it. I can’t fall apart.
Not here. In front of him. In front of them.
I excuse myself and go to the bathroom and lean against the door. I’m not upset, I’m just… I don’t know what I am. Feeling too much. There’s no room for it inside my head, and I want to draw myself open and let the feelings bleed from my skin—
The door nudges open and I scramble out of the way. Emmy rushes in and leans back against the door. For some reason, she looks exactly how I feel.
She bites her lip. ‘Are you—?’
‘Why wouldn’t he say anything?’ I interrupt. Something rushes through me, a need, urging, pushing— ‘How does a holiday to Miami slip someone’s mind?’
She winces. ‘It doesn’t, Fran. He knew exactly what kind of bomb he was dropping. He knew you wouldn’t say anything in front of us.’
I start to pace. ‘He had the nerve, the audacity, to call me up on asking him for permission when I have to ask himevery fucking timeif I can go out, just for him to say no. He never lets me wear anything too short or revealing, as if it’s my fault if I’m assaulted. If I go to the shop he blows up my phone—and yet, it’s okay for him to do all those things? It’s okay for him to go to Miami when I can’t go down the road? It’s okay for him to wear whatever the hell he wants even if he looks like shit? It’s okay for him to go out and leave me wondering where the hell he is all night, if he’s alright, if he’s alive—‘ I take a shuddering breath. ‘How is itfair?’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Maybe I'm the Problem
Ilean against the bedroom doorframe and watch Archer gather the last of his things.
I bite my lip. ‘What time’s your flight back?’ I ask.
He runs his hands down his face. ‘More questions?’
Admittedly, I have asked a whole lot of questions this past week, but I’ve done it gradually, over dinner or in bed or during our work rants. I don’t want to appear needy and obsessive, but I can’t suppress the torrent of thoughts floating around in my head. Of course I want to know which part of Miami he’s staying at and if it has clubs nearby and what time they shut and what, exactly, they intend on doing over there. I’ve tried to gather as much information as possible to ease the knot in my stomach, but nothing can quench the nausea as I watch my boyfriend zip up his suitcase and rattle off his checklist on his fingers.
Five minutes.
That’s how long we have until he leaves.
I can’t shake the feeling that nothing will be the same after those five minutes. That I’ll just convince myself he’s going to betray me. Destroy me. Completely break me.
Look at you, whispers that incessant voice in my mind.He already has.
Too many words; not enough time.
So I say the one thing that comes to me, the one thing I’ve been holding off. ‘I’m worried you’re going to cheat on me.’
That makes him look at me. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because you’re going to be around women wearing practically nothing.’
‘Aren’t you always saying women can wear whatever they want?’
‘Yeah, but—it’s just different.’
‘How so?’
‘Because you’re not used to seeing so much skin. Not in London.’
He opens his mouth but then snaps it shut, catching himself. Suddenly, he refuses to meet my gaze. ‘You have nothing to worry about,’ he says. ‘I’ll be back in a week.’ He kisses the top of my head, and dramatic ass that I am, I inhale his scent, wondering if this is the last time I’ll ever smell it.
I follow him to the door. ‘Call when you get there.’ I want to say more. Want to wrap my arms around him and force him to stay until his flight leaves without him. Want to tell him how much he means to me, how much I love him. But the words don’t make it out.
He nods. ‘I will.’ He goes to step into the hall—but then he pauses and whips around. Something flashes across his expression, something like wariness and longing. ‘Be safe,’ he adds, and then he’s gone.
