I hate it.
I hate that she still has that hold on me.
I let out a sharp sigh, jaw tight, then give her a stern look on my face.
“I’m on my way. I’ll be there in about two hours,” I sign. “But I swear, if this isn’t important, if this turns out to be another one of your games—I’m done. You won’t see me again.”
She gives a small, jerky nod. Her eyes are red, glassy with the tears she’s trying so hard to keep in.
“I’ll be waiting,” she says quietly.
I hang up.
Fuck.
Fuck.
fuck.
My breathing comes out uneven. I don’t know what I’m walking into, and the not-knowing makes my skin itch. Why does she always do this? Why does she keep pulling me back,even when I’ve clawed so hard to move forward? I grab my phone and type quickly:
Lucas:Hey Ty. Can we please push
Sephora and bowling till tomorrow?
I need to go see my mom, she says
It’s urgent. I’ll be back tonight and
Spend lots of time with you, okay?
I stare at the message for a second, then hit send. I hate bailing on Tyler. But something about this… whatever this is with my mom… it feels different. Heavy. Like it has something to do with me.
I shove the phone in my pocket and grab my Jacket.
I should text Alex, too. Should tell him I’m leaving town. But the thought of dragging him into this—into her—makes my stomach churn.
He doesn’t belong in that part of my world. In the wreckage I came from. He’s good and warm and careful with me in a way I never expected. He sees the light in me, not the damage. And I want to keep it that way.
So I don’t tell him or text him.
I’ll be back soon,I tell myself.Just a few hours. Just long enough to hear whatever this “big” thing is and leave it behind.
Just long enough to remind myself why I left her in the first place.
***
I’m fidgety. My palms are damp, and no matter how many times I wipe them on my jeans, it doesn’t help. I close my eyes and let out a slow breath, trying to ground myself, but the train feels like it’s crawling, each minute stretching longer than the last. The music playing through my hearing aids—the playlist that usually helps—feels like background noise, unable to drown out the churning in my chest.
I look out the window, watching the blur of passing fields, and force myself to think of something, anything, that might soothe the storm in my stomach.
So I think of Alex.
I think of the way he held me last night, after he’d left my legs trembling and my throat hoarse from moaning his name. The way he always wraps himself around me like I’m something fragile. Something his body was made to protect.
He’d frowned when I told him I needed to go back to my apartment today, his displeasure clear, but he’d softened the second I promised to return tomorrow. That quiet acceptance, that trust, it does something to me.
But the tightness comes back quickly. Because in two days, I’ll be back at his family’s mansion—this time, with his father and grandfather there. That thought alone makes my fingers clench in my lap.
