Habit droveme to read those messages but a gut-punched blend of curiosity and horror drove me to go looking for others from Harry. Who I fucking hated. Who the fuck was named Harry anymore? Awful fucking name.
There was only one previous message, dated a couple of weeks ago.
Harry: Are you ending this?
There wasno response from Stella. No response.
I stared at the timestamp, the date. I'd spent more than a month's worth of mornings walking with her at Jamaica Pond when that message had arrived. I'd shared at least twenty evenings with her. I'd tasted her cunt and bitten her ass and asked her to marry me and she hadn't responded.
I dropped the phone as if it'd stung me.
Suddenly, the rucked-up sheets and scattered pillows that represented every one of my dreams and desires now chafed my skin. I darted off the bed, snatched my clothes from the floor. My shirt was inside-out but I didn't care. My only concern was getting the hell out of here.
I couldn't stay. I couldn't look at Stella after tonight—after everything—without demanding an explanation. But I knew what was coming to me. I'd accepted the terms. I'd known her conditions. And I'd stayed in spite of them. I'd believed I could outlast those men and I thought I had.
But it wasn't the men I was working to outlast. It was Stella.
I shoved my hands into my pockets, hoping to find my phone. The one with a stunning shortage of women asking me to "hang out" with them. When I located it, I went straight for the car service app and thanked all the deities for GPS because I didn't know which fucking town I was in right now. And why would I know where Stella lived? Why the fuck would I know the name of the street she lived on or the number of guys who begged her to hang out in any given week?
I ordered the first driver I could find and went in search of my shoes. If I didn't find them in the next nine seconds, I was leaving without them. Fuck shoes. Who needed them? Shoes, women who told you they love you, orgasms that made you believe in heaven. None of it was necessary. Fuck it all.
Then Stella stepped inside the bedroom, her skin rosy and her hair gathered on the top of her head. She looked like a fucking angel and I hated Harry even more. In that moment, I hated Stella too. Hated her for being honest with me from the start, for letting me fall for her, for standing by while I built this fantasy world where all I had to do was love her harder, love her better than those guys. And I hated her for loving me in return because why bother if she wouldn't end it with Harry? Why say it if she couldn't be bothered to tell Harry it was over? Why allow me to belong to her if it wasn't meant for more than a minute?
Her smile faltered as she took in my jeans, my inside-out shirt. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Did you get paged?"
Yes. That was the answer. Far better thanYou're still seeing other guys and I told you I love you and you said it back and now I have to kill a douchebag named Harry.
"Yeah. I'm leaving," I replied, the words exactly as sharp as they needed to be. "I have to go."
"Okay," she said, pulling her robe tight. "Do you want me to drive you or—"
"No," I snapped, still looking for my damn shoes. Even with my gaze glued to the floor, I saw her recoil at my words. "No, Stella. I'm going and you're staying right there."
She banded an arm over her waist, gathered the lapels of her robe in her other hand and held it to her breastbone. "Oh. Oh, okay." She nodded as if she understood—she didn't—and lifted a pillow, revealing my shoes. "Here you go."
I didn't look at her. Couldn't. Couldn't melt for those dimples again. Couldn't see forever in her eyes and then walk away. Couldn't risk accepting the pittance she offered me because I would. I'd take this fractional part of her life and pretend I was okay with it. I'd do that until the day I lost my shit and actually killed Harry. And that day would be tomorrow.
"Thanks," I barked.
It sounded like a slap and the way she stumbled back told me it landed that way too. Good. I wanted her to hurt.
"Do you want to come back? When you're done?" she asked. "I don't care if it's late. I'll give you a key and you can—"
"No," I replied. "No, I'm not coming back here."
"All right," she said slowly. "What about tomorrow? Do you want to get brunch or go for—"
"No," I repeated. "Not tomorrow. Definitely not tomorrow."
"Definitely not tomorrow," she repeated. "Okay. What about Monday? Will I see you Monday at the pond? Will you be there like usual?"
I jerked a shoulder up while I tied my shoes. "It depends on how the weekend goes, Stella. I can't predict what will happen with my patients and they come first. You can't expect anything more from me."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her bobbing her head as she processed my words. Through the dull ache of this moment, I knew I was being harsh. Excessively so. But I was too fucked up to protect her feelings. If anything, I wanted to wound her. I wanted to hit her with all the harshness I had in me, just rip her the fuck open. I wanted her to know what it was like to be kept in the dark. To be left scrounging for scraps.
"Cal, I don't know what's happening," she whispered. "What did I do?"
I spied my wallet on the floor, plucked it up before glancing at her. I shouldn't have. Fuck, no. Should've ditched the shoes and the wallet and skipped that last look because it broke me. My chest was heavy and my head pounded and I couldn't manage a deep breath and it fucking broke me.
