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Tristan brings the phone down only long enough to tap his screen once and then my phone rings again.
His eyes are determined, his jaw set as he stares at me. I could block him, I should, but in the story of him and I, I never have been able to do the things I should.
“What?” I snap, picking up.
His answering smirk is wolfish, making my stomach clench in response.
“Hi, baby. It’s been a while.”
My eyes flutter closed, my heart squeezing. I underestimated the destructive power of his voice. Whatever defenses I’ve managed to devise, he blows them to pieces with six words.
“Say something,” he entices. “I need to hear that beautiful voice of yours.”
How is he still doing this? If he’s so desperate to get me back, why didn’t he do what was necessary to keep me in the first place?
“Why won’t you give up? I’ve refused to see you for two months, that should tell you that I want nothing to do with you.”
He steps forward as if it’ll bring him closer to me.
“I won’t give up because I refuse to live without you, it’s that simple.”
I turn away from the window but his voice comes through the line, frenzied and agitated.
“Don’t,” he pleads, grimacing. “Please. Just give me five minutes. Five minutes of your time and I’ll go.”
“You’ll go back to France?”
I don’t know why that thought turns my stomach almost to the point of being sick.
“No,” his jaw sets. “But I’ll leave you alone for the night,” he clarifies. “Five minutes. Please.”
I consider him for a moment longer, my face turned towards him but my body angled away. I’m still so angry when I look at him. Betrayal rattles in my chest as fresh as the day I found out. And yet, I can’t make myself walk away from the window.
“Two minutes.”
Relief flashes across his features, an easy smile stretching his lips and making my pussy clench.
“Good girl,” he purrs through the line, making arousal pool in my lower stomach. “How are you? Have you been taking care of yourself?”
His eyes scan eagerly down the parts of my body he can see from three floors below as if to assess the answer for himself.
“Yeah, I have.”
I actually have. As much as I miss him, as much as the hurt he inflicted caused real devastation, I haven’t let it break me.
The food therapist I’d started seeing when we were still together helped me understand the root causes of my eating disorders. She taught me coping mechanisms to use when I feel the voice rearing its ugly head.
The road to a healthy relationship with food is a long one with an as of yet uncertain ending but… I’m doing better.
I’ve put on a bit of much needed weight. While the numbers on the scale terrify me and make me want to run to the bathroom to remedy the problem immediately, I can’t deny that the changes I’m seeing in my body are for the better. Gone are the mental fog, the lightheadedness, and the bone deep weakness. Now my skin is rosy with good health, my hair shinier than I’ve ever seen it, and my fencing the best it’s ever been.
The therapist also helped me understand that I needed to set boundaries with my parents. For my father, that meant cutting him off entirely. He was never going to change his ways or stop his various abuses of me. That relationship was irretrievable and I found that I didn’t even want to try.
The same day I cut him off, I had an emotional call with my mother. She was flustered when she picked up the phone, her voice shrill and worried.
“I heard what you said to your father. Are you out of your mind? You need to call him right now and apologize. If you beg for forgiveness, he might choose to forget this ever happened.”
I’d had unwitting tears in my eyes before she even finished her sentence, suddenly choked by years of suppressed emotions being set free.
