I could’ve hopped on a closer subway instead of stomping among the mime artists, buskers, joggers and Friday night party-goers. But I need to walk off this rage before I go full Stephen King’sCarrieon Manhattan and telekinetically fling Connor Quinn into the Hudson.
A tear streaks down my cheek but I angrily karate-chop it away and keep marching forward.
How dare he treat me like that. Sure, he’s got his bag of issues, but that doesn’t give him a pass to treat me like trash, like I’m disposable. If our bridge wasn’t burned before, it’s up in fucking flames now.
I will never, ever forgive him for this.
“Never ever ever,” I growl to myself. The joggers steer clear, giving me a wide berth.
He was a glaring red-flag button just begging to be pushed. And push I did, with all my might.
Hope is a fucking liar. It makes fools out of us.
The biggest mistake was believing there was something real between Connor and me. Because part of me did. I didn’t admit it, not even to myself. I was falling in love with Connor Quinn—the good, the bad, and the broken parts.
Turns out, he’s too broken, and not for the reasons he thinks. It’s got less to do with his ears and more to do with the cold, dead cavity where a heart should beat.
I barely register getting on the subway, riding, getting off at my stop. It’s all a numb blur.
When I stumble through the door, Grace takes one look at me and knows something’s wrong. I can’t even pretend. I wish I could muster the performance of a lifetime, like I did that infamous night for Deano’s scam at the hotel.
Now . . . I just can’t.
“Did dinner with the family not go well?” she asks, eyes wide.
“No,” I force out through clenched teeth. “It did not. Connor is a cunt.” There’s a musical ring to it, as if his parents, in their infinite wisdom, looked into his newborn baby eyes and thought “Ah yes, C for cunt, that’s our boy.”
“What happened?” Grace asks, worry lines creasing her forehead.
I should tell her the whole story after how he treated me. But I can’t break his trust, even now, even after everything.
“Let’s just say he acted like an entitled asshole. We won’t be seeing each other anymore.” My voice cracks on the last word.
Her mouth drops open dramatically.
“Don’t stress,” I assure, catching her panic. “It won’t mess with your internship. Connor might hate me, but I think he has a soft spot for you.”
“But seriously, what did he do?” she presses, her voice rising with indignation.
“I’d rather not replay the gory details. I’ve donated enough mind space to that guy.”
Her expression crumbles for a mix of reasons. “I’m not gonna work for some jerk who messed with you!”
“Grace,” I tell her, my tone dead serious, almost pleading. “You never see Connor in the office. This won’t affect you. You love the people you work with and the work itself. Quitting won’t even register to Connor, but it’ll sure hurt you.”
She grumbles unhappily but relents.
Her choice words for Connor suggest she’s pegged him as the classic playboy, playing the field. The truth is so much weirder.
She stomps around the kitchen, brewing some bitter nettle concoction to “zen” me out. I’m thinking the only good thosenettles would do is if they somehow find their way into Connor’s Armani boxers.
I retreat to my room, needing to be alone, because I don’t want my little sister to see me cry.
???
As the hours tick by, my rage simmers, sinking its claws in and gnawing from the inside. I’m just fucking sad and disappointed at this point.
God, I thought I was falling in love with this person. What was I thinking? No sane person jumps into a cage with a tiger not expecting to get mauled.
