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I don’t know what part is driving me out of my mind more—the fact that he kissed me or the fact that he pushed me away so fast as if I was something disgusting.
He treats me like a gnat that is buzzing around his head, annoying him. Like his only objective is to swat and kill me.
It sucks.
Majorly.
And the killing blow is when Gail told me Trent left with her. The blonde. Who knows where they even went? Did they go for drinks? Is it a date?
Since I have no clue, I refuse to be there when he gets home.
Sure, the loft space is large, but it’s not large enough that I wouldn’t know if he brought a girl home.
The sound in this place echoes, too.
I would die if I had to hear him sleep with her.
I don’t know why I care.
Correction: I shouldn’t care, but I know why I do.
It’s because he’s weaseled his way past my barriers in ways I vowed never to let anyone do.
How can I give a shit about what some jackass does (or whom he does) when he’s been trying to make my life a living hell for the past several weeks?
Add up the time from the day we met, and it’s been twelve—no, not twelve. It’s been fourteen weeks since this man began his quest to ruin me. The fact that I care about him is an insult to the word self-respect.
So, why do I?
Once the adrenaline of finishing his task faded, why did it gut me so much to see his reaction to my presentation?
Because you saw inside him. That’s why.
I saw a piece of him that he didn’t want me to see, and now I understand.
Or maybe, you understand nothing.
Maybe the truth is, everything was a façade. Maybe he really is a jerk, plain and simple, and there is no good side. Maybe he’s not a lost little boy looking for his dad’s approval, even after his death. Maybe his mom’s words were mere ramblings of a biased woman who can’t help but love her son.
Get a grip, Payton.
As I ride the train back to Long Island, the hairs on my arm stand like someone is watching me.
I know I’m being paranoid. It’s the residual effect of the phone calls, the break-in, the strange truck that I swear was following me. These weird things, things I should confront Trent about but keep forgetting to, make me on edge. Twenty-four seven.
I feel the adrenaline spiking.
Is this Trent’s doing still?
Wouldn’t put it past him. There is a very good possibility he is doing things to drive me insane.
That’s probably the goal.
Has it all been about money this entire time?
If I am deemed insane, if I have a mental breakdown, he will petition the court so that I am not able to get the money, or maybe even worse.
He will position himself in a way to hold the money over me throughout my life.
