And that’s what hurts most.
I’m not worth the risk to him.
I’m not enough.
And it wouldn’t matter if I was leaving for London or not.
No matter what I could’ve done, no matter how much I could’ve tried, I was never going to be enough.
38
Fletcher
I did the right thing.
That’s what I keep telling myself while I toss and turn all night.
I did the right thing.
I’m not relationship material. It was dumb to ask her to stay.
She needed to go.
It was end shitty now, or end shitty later.
Might as well be now.
But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to roar when I find the note she left in the kitchen.
Thank you for being the friend that I needed exactly when I needed you. Here’s my phone number in case I can ever return the favor.
I should throw it away.
Sweet Pea growls at me for thinking it, so instead, I shove the note behind the stash of Cadbury chocolate bars that I don’t acknowledge I have ninety-nine percent of the time.
“Happy now?” I ask my dog.
She stares at me with mournful eyes, then turns her back on me, trots to the living room, and curls up in her extra doggie bed.
And then I pretend everything’s fine and I head to the stadium for training.
Where I park right next to Silas as he’s getting out of his Ferrari.
Fuck.
Since we both jumped on that parent who was demanding perfection from his four-year-old last weekend, there’s been this unspoken truce between us.
He didn’t ask me for help with the asshat.
I didn’t ask him either.
We both turned and told him to knock it off at the same time—both of us, in unison like we planned it, “Knock it off,” and that was that.
But he’s giving me one of his old mulish fuck-wanker looks while he waits for me to get out of my Range Rover.
Left the Bentley in the parking garage at my building.
Probably gonna sell it.
