I round his car. His stupid fancy sports car is so low, I see him standing over the top of it with his forehead pinched. I squat and grunt, pretending to ruin his car. I hear his quick footsteps before I run away from the car and back into my house, leaving him outside.
Ha!
He stands there, sighing in defeat with his arms thrown up. “Lana!”
“Bye!” I slam my front door and lock it.
As much as I hate the shoes, I pick them up from my floor delicately and take them to the kitchen where their boxes are still open on the island. I tuck them away neatly, promising myself I’ll wear them just to spite him. Because I’ll be damned to let him off easy just because he spent money on shoes, especially boots he knew I’d love.
I close the boxes gently, planning to store them in my closet just as they came. I’ll also be damned if the boots turn out as bad as my current combat boots.
I close the Balenciaga box, stacking it on the other, and my back door slides open, Christian stepping through. “Fuck.”
“The one door you forgot to lock.”
I roll my eyes and make a mocking face. “I didn’t forget.”
“No?”
“I left it open because I was just taking these outside to bury them,” I say as my fingers twitch on the shoe boxes.
“Sure you were.”
I sigh, and I give up. “What are you doing here, Christian?”
“I’m expecting an apology for the bruises I’ll have tomorrow as a result of your temper tantrum.”
I gape at him and bring up my foot to take my slipper off and throw that at him too. “Don’t youdarecall it a temper tantrum!”
“Stop throwing shoes at me!”
“Stophurting me!” I shout back. I push my hair back from my face and take a deep breath while Christian bends to pick up my sandal. “You want an apology for the bruises?”
“Lana, I was just kid?—”
“I want an apology for you ripping my heart out. I want an apology for the way you drive back into this town like I owe you forgiveness when I owe younothing.I want an apology for youleaving me!” I croak, leaning with my hands on the white granite and letting my head hang. “Just get out of my house, Christian.”
I’m strangely relieved when he doesn’t leave right away. When, instead, he walks toward me slowly, rounding the island and lowering himself onto his knee. With my head down, I watch his large hand wrap gently around my left ankle as he lifts my foot and puts the soft slipper back on my foot.
My lips press into a tight line when his forehead is on myknee, his hand cupping my calf and the other around my ankle. I tighten my hands on the counter so I don’t touch him. I should be better disciplined.
But then he softly presses his lips to my knee, lingering on my skin before he pulls away, and I lose it. His gaze snaps onto mine through his lashes, and I don’t hide whatever I’m showing on my face. Let him see it. Let him see all the ways I broke and how hard I had to work to piece myself back together.
Christian frowns like he recognizes it.
“Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be in the driveway,” he whispers from below, and I hold the rest of it in. He squeezes my ankle once before he stands and walks toward the front door. That’s when I let myself cry.
It started raining as soon as my shift ended—a good or bad omen, I’m not sure. But as soon as I park, I run into the apartment building and up the stairs, hoping the rain pellets fall off me on the way.
I open the door with a smile, exhausted and wanting to take a nap with Christian. It’s our favorite thing to do when it rains. Cuddle and watch a movie he doesn’t want to see but he watches anyway because of me.
But that’s all thrown out the window and into the rain when I see him lying on the living room floor, his body limp.
I go to him—run. I kneel beside him and shake him, but nothing happens. I smack his cheeks and all I get is an annoyed groan. “Christian!”
And the first thing that comes to mind, the thought that thoroughly tears me to shreds as I look at his face,you are becoming your father.
“Get up, Christian, come on,” I grunt, pulling him from beneath his shoulders to our bathroom. My legs tremble as I pull his weight, barely.
