My blood bubbles under the surface, heat licking at my skin from within. He hasn’t answered any of my calls or texts, but burying his head in the sand when things get stressful isn’t the answer.
He needs to hear what I have to say. Though I’m not sure what that is. Yell. Cry… Something?
But I don’t.
Because if I tell him how much he hurt me, it means I still care. And I don’t want to care about someone who sees me just as everyone else does, as content.
“He’s still not answering.” My thumb ghosts the screen, willing him to open his messages and for the little dots to start moving on the screen.
Clíodhna puts her hands up. “I’ve got to be honest, Rhi. I’m not sure I would right now if I were him either.”
“Ugh.” I slap my hands on my thighs and continue my pacing. So far, I’ve avoided a full-on confrontation with my father and brother, and my sisters are ready to drink with me or dig a grave for Robert depending on which way my mood goes.
Aoife tries to confiscate the phone I’m tapping off my palm in a clenched fist, but she backs off at my growl.
My screen lights up with Mum’s name, and for a fleeting moment, I reconsider handing it to Aoife.
When Mum’s name stops flashing, Taranis’s starts, after him, it’s Charlie, and after her, it’s a childhood coach I had before Dad stepped in to take over. Every goddamn name on my contact list appears as a missed call except the person I want to talk to.
I trusted that motherfucker, let him get close, let him learn everything he needed to write a scandalous piece about me for the craic. I have to say, the writing left a lot to be desired. It certainly wasn’t his best work. But I suppose that’s what happens when your girlfriend says she needs a minute to decide whether to help you write an article about her, and you decide to go forward with it anyway.
Bastard still won’t answer my calls.
My eyes flick to the page I’veprinted out on the coffee table. I told myself I wouldn’t read it again. But there it is—my voice, stripped and sterilized, paraded between quotation marks.
Sometimes I think if I stop running, I’ll disappear.
I said that in the dark, in his bed, with his breath on my neck. I said it because he asked what it felt like to play for someone who only sees you when you’re winning.
And he published it.
I thought I’d finally escaped being my father’s puppet. Turns out, I just changed puppeteers.
And worse, I handed him the strings.
I pound out a message on my phone, reread it, and my thumb hovers for a long beat. I shake my head. Delete. Rinse. Repeat. Not able to bring myself to hit the arrow.
Is this it? Is he ghosting me? That’s generally what it means when someone doesn’t answer a bazillion missed calls and texts, right?
Did he simply get what he needed from me to bolster his career and now he’s done? Another hot spear lances through my heart at the thought, and I grip the side of the sofa to steady myself.
No. I can’t have been taken for a ride again, can I? I shake my head, my hands trembling.
I should have kept it casual. I should have known, after that traitorous bastard and his traitorous bitch… letting people in only causes pain.
I’ve already had a rough call with the team’s coach this morning. “This is exactly why we don’t date journalists. You’re a walking headline now.”
I felt like screaming back at him that the fucking team’s PR person was the one who told me dating him was my only option, but at the end of the day, it makes no odds. Regardless of why I started fake-dating him, I real-fell for him. There’s nothing fake about my feelings for Robert McAllister.
His silence right now is shady as hell. It screams guilt. And the more I want to believe he didn’t do this to me, the harder it is when he won’t even pick up the phone.
Coach made a not-too-guarded threat that it’s getting too close to the start of the season for this kind of scandal to befall the team, especially after the June I had. I wanted to remind him we still have a few weeks to go, but I bit my tongue.
I’m atomic, and just like when I was standing at the top of the altar weeks ago, everyone thinks I’m a fucking joke.
My stomach lurches, threatening to empty the three cups of tea I’ve consumed while my sisters have tried to calm me down this evening.
Someone knocks on the door, and my bastarding heart leaps thinking my boyfriend has come to help me figure out what the fuck to do with this whole situation. It sinks again when Bláthnaid and Matthew cross the threshold.
