“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he blurts out. “Ever since you showed up in my life again, I can’t sleep at night. All I do is think about how to make things right.”
And he thinks now is a good time to drop this on me? Everything I’ve kept sealed away—anger, hurt, betrayal—suddenly erupts like hot lava.
“Are you serious right now?” I ask. “You left me. You said you didn’t love me. Do you have any idea how many nights I cried myself to sleep, wondering what I did wrong?”
“Sarah, please, just let me explain—“
“No. You don’t get to explain,” I snap, tears forming. “You broke my heart, Jake. You stole my work. You made me doubt everything—my talent, my worth, my judgment.” My breaths come in jagged bursts as I spill everything I kept locked away. “For four years, I carried it. Four years of wondering why I wasn’t enough, why you couldn’t even give me the dignity of a real explanation.” I stare at him, the ache in my chest turning sharp, turning vicious. “And now you think you can waltz back into my life because what, you’re bored? Lonely? Or do you just need someone to help climb the corporate ladder?”
Jake reaches for me, his face a portrait of misery. “It wasn’t like that—“
“Stop.” I retreat out of his reach. “You’re the worst person in the world for hurting me like that.”
Tears run unchecked down my cheeks. The weight of everyone’s stares tightens around my chest, squeezing until it hurts to breathe. I’ve made a scene. I’ve become exactly what I feared—a spectacle in front of colleagues and strangers alike.
This is too much. I turn and flee, pushing past curious onlookers toward the nearest exit.
Outside, the crisp night air cools my overheated skin. I brace myself against the stone wall, my whole body shaking from the aftershock of what just transpired.
“Sarah, are you okay?” Wendy’s voice comes from my left. I look up to find her standing a few feet away, concern fixed across her face.
I shake my head, unable to form words past the knot in my throat.
Without hesitation, she wraps her arms around me, pulling me into a hug that I realize I needed more than anything. “I saw what happened. I’m so sorry.”
“Can you take me home?” I whisper against her shoulder.
“Of course.”
The drive back is a blur of streetlights and silence. I stare out the window at the passing shadows, one hand pressed against my stomach where emotion turns like nausea after a night of drinking.
I wanted so badly to let out all the pain and anger I’d been holding onto—but the release hasn’t brought the catharsis I’d imagined.
Instead, my chest aches, and regret gnaws at me. The scene of our argument plays on an endless loop behind my eyes—my words, his face, the spectators—leaving me wishing I could rewind time and swallow back every syllable that escaped my trembling lips.
Chapter 15
Ithought yelling at Jake would feel like relief, like lancing a wound that’s been festering for four long years and finally letting the poison drain. But now I’m standing in my empty apartment, staring at a blank wall where the echo of my words still seems to cling, and all I feel is hollow. Empty. The knot in my chest hasn’t loosened, it’s cinched tighter.
My hands shake as I snatch my keys and phone, shoving my feet into the first shoes I find by the door. The hallway stretches ahead as I hurry toward Jake’s apartment, my heartbeat thundering against my ribs.
Standing before his door, I hesitate. What am I even going to say? I’m sorry for screaming four years of hurt at you in front of everyone? I’m sorry for finally saying what I’ve been choking down since you left?
I lift my fist and knock, but no footsteps answer from the other side. I knock again, harder, my knuckles stinging as urgency strips away my caution.
“Jake?” My voice cracks, splitting the silence of the hallway. “Are you home?”
Nothing.
I press my ear to the door and hear nothing, no movement, no hint of him inside. Maybe he’s still at the party. I step back and pull out my phone.
Please call me, I type, thumb hovering over the send button for three heartbeats before I press it.
For the next hour, I check my phone obsessively. I stare at it while I pace my apartment. I check it again after I brush my teeth. I set it on my nightstand where the screen will light up the whole room if he texts back.
Morning comes, the sunshine signaling the end of my sleepless night. My phone remains silent, the message still unread.
The weekend drags on in a haze of waiting and second-guessing. Somehow, this sharp ache in my chest feels worse than being angry at him. At least anger was clean. Simple. This tangled mess of regret and longing and hurt makes it hard to breathe.
