She gives me a sad smile, her eyes moving back and forth as if they’re cataloging all the events in her own life that led her to this specific point in time. It’s at the tip of my tongue to tell her that my heart isn’t broken, but what’s the point of lying?
“Does it get better?” I hate the hopeful lilt in my voice.
“I don’t think I’m the right person to answer that,” she says apologetically, playing with the tassels on the edge of the blanket. “But I want you to know that I fully intend on kicking Ashton’s ass. He may be one of my oldest friends, but he doesn’t get a free pass to be a dick.”
“Thanks, Skylar.” If I have to endure this, I’m glad I have these two badass women to help me through it.
I turn on the TV and go to grab another blanket from the closet when I hear my phone vibrating on the kitchen counter. I just missed the call. It’s from an unknown number. My first thought is that Ashton got a new number. He’s been calling and texting me since the day I walked away from him, but I haven’t answered. I have nothing to say to him. He broke my heart, plain and simple. Even after the adrenaline and the rage subsided, I was left with the same conclusion. It doesn’t matter why he went behind my back, located my father, and then hid it from me.There’s no explanation that would allow me to ever fully trust him again. So there’s no point in hearing him out.
I look down at my phone, noting that there’s a voicemail. I click play, bringing the phone to my ear. If I hear his voice, I’m deleting it right away. It’s not his voice, though. It’s similar but deeper, older-sounding.
“Hello, Allie. This is Matthew Tyler, Ashton’s father. He asked me to call you to give you an update on a person you were trying to locate. A Mark Shepherd. Anyway, my PI was able to locate him, but as it turns out, he’s in prison. He was arrested late Sunday night for attempting to leave the country, which violated his parole. As far as I know, he is not being released on bail. That’s all the information I was given. If you have any questions, feel free to give me a call at this number. Take care.”
My phone nearly slips from my hand due to the sweat pouring out of my palm. Walking to the kitchen, I place it down on the island, my whole body sagging with relief. Mark is in jail. He’s no longer a threat to my mother. For now, at least. Who knows how long he will be in prison? He was obviously into some shady shit if he was on parole to begin with and trying to leave the country? He was clearly trying to escape getting caught for something else or running from someone. Either way, I’ll take the win for now. My mom can go back to her life, and I can start to figure out mine.
So why, as I sit at the kitchen counter staring at the ‘unknown’ number on my phone, am I disappointed that Ashton had his father call me instead of telling me himself? It feels like giving up. And that hurts more than anything else he’s done to me.
35
ALLIE
I wakeup thankful that my poison of choice last night was ice cream and not tequila. I still feel like shit, but maybe not as much as I would have. I still haven’t drunk alcohol since that night at the inn with Ashton. Not that my life has improved. I traded one addiction for another, and my new one hasn’t proven any less damaging.
The girls stayed with me last night until the chocolate peanut butter carton was empty and Emory passed out, softly snoring on my couch. Skylar left shortly after that. I texted Luke to let him know, so he didn’t worry. Of course, he came over immediately to carry her home. He seemed weird when he came in the door, but I shrugged it off. I told Emory just to give him broad strokes, so he doesn’t know the whole story, but maybe Ashton said something? Is it possible he’s on Ashton’s side? Luke has his demons, just like me. He’s not perfect by any means, but I can’t imagine he would ever lie to Emory for an entire year.
I rip the covers off like a band-aid and head straight for the coffee pot. When I enter the kitchen, I notice that it’s already brewed, a mug waiting beside it. My mother is drinking hers at the kitchen island, her nose in that book Emory lent her. It has ablack-and-white picture of a shirtless man with an eight-pack in a suggestive pose on the cover. I roll my eyes.
I told my mom about Mark last night right after I got the voicemail. She insisted on going back to her house today, so I’m going to drive her over after a much-needed caffeine fix.
“Thanks for making coffee,” I say as I pour some in my mug. My mother jumps up as if she has just been caught shoplifting and slams the book shut, a blush creeping over her cheeks.
“Oh, right. Coffee. Of course, sweet pea.”
What is in this damn book? If Emory gave it to her, I can only imagine.
The unease on her face turns into something that looks alarmingly like pity. As if she knows something she shouldn’t.
“Everything okay?” I check.
“Absolutely.” She nervously nibbles on her bottom lip.
I go to the fridge to grab my favorite creamer, pouring it into my mug. I look over and now she’s stirring her coffee slowly, just staring at me. She’s acting like Luke was last night. What the hell is going on?
“Okay, what is it?” I snap. “You’re acting really fucking weird.”
“Just don’t freak out,” she says carefully. “I know I’m the last person in the world who should be giving relationship advice, but?—”
“Relationship advice? What does that have to do with anything?”
“I always knew they were wrong, Allie. There was only one man for me, and if he showed up at my doorstep right now, even after all this time, I’d like to think I would hear him out.”
My brows pull together in confusion. Is she talking about my father? She gives me a sad smile and walks into the bedroom.
Doorstep.
She said if he showed up at herdoorstep. I run to the door, swinging it open, but no one is there. Looking down at my barefeet, I notice a glint, like the sun is reflecting off something. That’s when I see it. The shiny copper watch. And the man who’s holding it, sprawled out on my front porch, fast asleep. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a maroon Blackwell College hoodie. No blanket, no pillow. His elbow is propped up behind his head to keep it from hitting the ground. His hair is messy, finger-raked, his cheeks slightly flushed. I watch as his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. How long has he been here? Since last night? Is that why Luke was acting so weird? Clearly, my mom saw him.
Ashton stirs, moving from his back to his side, and I slowly close the door, making sure the latch doesn’t make any noise.
