If I made her hate me, I never had to admit to her that I ran that red light on purpose. If she hated me, I could keep pretending I didn't see the light. But I did see it. It just didn't fucking matter. What I wanted did—her lips on mine did. Right up until I saw the fucking garbage truck and realized that kissing her didn't make me invincible. It simply made me reckless enough to think I was. And it made me dangerous enough not to know the difference when it mattered most.
"Fuck," I groan, burying my face in my hands as my shoulders shake, years of guilt and grief threatening to tear me apart. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep running from the truth, pretending that if I never tell her, it somehow makes it better. It doesn't.
All that's done is destroy her.
I'm so goddamn tired of being the thing that destroys her.
I haul myself out onto the floor, peel off my soaked clothes, and watch the water swirl down the drain. There's a moment where I wish I could swirl with it—just vanish down the pipes—but that's the kind of melodramatic bullshit I can't afford anymore.
I don't get to die or disappear or fade away when she's the one who will have to live with it. I can't do that to her, not when I've already done so much fucking damage to her.
Christ, I've done so much damage.
I wrap myself in a towel and walk into the living room. My hands shake as I grab my phone, dialing her number. I don't even know why I call, because I know she won't answer. But it's like some part of me is hard-wired to her, like there's a string running from my chest to hers, and if I just pull hard enough, she'll come back like she always does.
The call goes straight to voicemail. Her voice is clipped, professional. I listen to every word, because I haven't heard her voice in two weeks. When it beeps, I hang up and dial again.
And again.
And again.
On the fifth try, her voicemail doesn't pick up. Neither does she. The phone just disconnects. She's blocked me, refusing to leave me even the comfort of her voicemail.
I set the phone down and pour myself a drink, promising myself that I'll stop after this one.
That's a lie.
By the time the sun is up, I've finished the Macallan. I stare at the window, but I don't see the city. All I see is her, looking up at me with that mixture of fury and hunger, her black hair a halo around her head, her mouth swollen from my kisses.
I see her kneeling because I told her to, a fucking queen even when she was on her knees at my feet. I see her, her mouth full of"fuck yous" and her perfect fingers pressed so hard into my skin I still have the bruises.
And I see her, crawling across the fucking floor to me, tears dripping down her cheeks. I see her, shattering into pieces as I pushed her up against the wall and took every last thing she had left. I see her, finally learning to hate me in a way that sticks.
I thought, even if I broke her enough to make her hate me for good, she'd still survive me. She'd be okay because she doesn't know how to be anything else. And if she finally hated me the way I always deserved, maybe I could stop hating myself so goddamn much.
Instead, I hate myself more than ever. For what I am. For what I've done. For everything I never said.
"Come back," I whisper to her memory. "Just…come back. I'll make it right."
The words sound pathetic, even to me.
At two, I'm in a cab, headed to her apartment on the Upper East Side in a suit that smells like a brewery. The driver gives me a look, then decides not to say anything. I pay him double and stumble up the stairs to her building, ignoring the doorman's questions.
By the time I reach her floor, I'm out of breath, barely holding it together.
She opens the door, her arms crossed, her eyes ringed with dark shadows. There's still a bruise on her jaw from the accident, faint but visible. The cuts, scrapes, and bruises on her arms are mostly healed.
She's lost weight. I see it in the lines of her collarbone and the way her shirt hangs off her shoulders. Her eyes are dull, nothing but pain behind them. Her face is pale, her expression lifeless.
Liam was right. She's a ghost, just going through the motions. This is what I've done to her, how I've hurt her. Seeing it…fucking hurts. Christ, it hurts like hell.
She looks through me at first, like she doesn't even see me standing there, and then she looks at me like I'm a stain on her carpet. "You look like you lost a bar fight."
"I deserve worse."
She doesn't argue.
I try to step inside, but she blocks the doorway with her body.
