I shrug. “Maybe I am, but did you really think you could show up unannounced and try to fuck me? Because that’s just what happened. I told you twice that I’m not having sex tonight, so you don’t have the right to be pissed.”
“I don’t know why I try with you.” He glares at me. “You’re obviously not worth my time.”
“Go home.”
He grabs his jacket and stalks toward the door. I don’t say goodbye. But I also refrain from saying “fuck you.” A win in my book.
A few seconds later he slams the door shut. I roll my eyes and walk over to lock it.
Another “relationship” down the drain.
Not that I put much effort into it. However, I can’t deny it’s a pattern too familiar, too predictable.
I exhale deeply, the tension slowly draining from my shoulders as I retreat into the solitude that has become my fortress.
It’s not just Mason, or the ones before him. It’s a series of emotional barricades that I’ve meticulously constructed over the years. Men come and go, their presence temporary and their impact minimal. I find myself unable to forge anything deeper than superficial attachments, an emotional aloofness that I wear like armor.
Something I’ve both cursed and cherished.
As I pour myself a glass of wine, the bitter truth settles in: My inability to emotionally connect isn’t just a facet of my personality. It’s a scar, a deep-seated residue from the trauma of my childhood. The murder of my parents, a brutal and senseless act, left me orphaned and alone, thrusting me into a world devoid of warmth. That coldness settled deep within me, shaping my interactions, freezing the potential for genuine intimacy.
It also created my need to understand the criminal mind. To understand how someone could rape, torture, and then brutally murder two innocent people.
Living through such horror at a young age, I learned to shut down, to protect myself from the vulnerabilities that open hearts endure. The fear of losing someone else, the potential of another devastating heartbreak, has kept me at arm’s length from anyone who might stir deeper emotions.
Except my best friend.
I grab my phone and my wine glass before settling on the couch. Then I dial Sarah’s number. She answers on the second ring. Thank goodness.
“What did you do?”
I laugh at her greeting. “I threw Mason out.”
“Again?”
“Again.”
She laughs quietly, a mix of exasperation and amusement clear in her voice. “Geneva, what are you going to do? It’s like a revolving door with you two.”
I take a sip of wine, the rich flavor dancing on my tongue as I consider her words. “I don’t know. It’s always the same withhim—or anyone, really. I get bored after a while. Then, I push them away.”
“I know you’re the one with a doctorate, but I hate to tell you that’s unhealthy behavior.”
“I know,” I admit in a whisper.
My gaze drifts to the city outside, the myriad lights a stark contrast to the darkness that feels like it’s creeping in around the edges of my mind. Did I project that same darkness on Mason? Wanting to paint him as an overly aggressive person so I could walk away without a backward glance? Sure, he could be an asshole but he’d never shown a possibility of violence.
“Every time I think I might be able to change, I end up right back here.” I sigh. “Alone.”
“You’re not alone, Gen. You have me.”
I smile, grateful for her understanding. “I know you’re here. And I appreciate it more than you can imagine.” I pause, gathering my nerve to give voice to my question. “How’d you do it?”
“What? Move on after being raped?”
I flinch. “Shit. I’m sorry. I just—”
Sarah cuts me off gently. “No, it’s okay. It’s not something I enjoy doing, but it’s good to talk about it sometimes. Especially with you. If you hadn’t gotten on the witness stand, that asshole would still be on the streets.”
