Christ, what is this? Is there a fucking full moon or some shit?
I glance at her text.
Kearstin said you weren’t feeling well.
I sigh, figuring it’s best to text her back.
Sick.
It’s not a lie. I am sick.
Sick of being used.
Sick of being lied to.
Sick of getting my heart ripped out of my fucking chest because I’ll never be enough for anyone.
Sick of loving someone who will never love me back.
I push myself out of bed to get something to eat.
I haven’t eaten much, if anything, since Saturday. I’m pretty sure I’ve lost at least five pounds just from stress and lack of an appetite. I throw on some grey sweatpants and one of my Rioters t-shirts.
The team’s always getting themed shirts for local events and campaigns. Most of the guys donate them or do giveaways, but I’ve kept every single one. Every Christmas when I come home, I transfer over any of my Rioter gear I don’t want to keep in my condo in PA.
This house is huge and it’s not like anyone is using the space but me.
I grab my pills and my phone and head out to the kitchen. I need to eat, and if I do decide to knock myself the fuck out, I know not to take a pain pill on an empty fucking stomach.
I blink, bleary eyed, as I make it down the hall to my open-concept kitchen and living room. The light is too bright, and I realize I’ve been confined to my bedroom for two days. Though the dark grey and black livingroom is on point for how shitty I feel, I at least need to get a cup of coffee. So into the bright white room I go.
When I renovated this house, I had the grand idea to put slivers and cracks throughout every room. Rooms like the kitchen, that are lighter, are spliced with dark cracks and granite. Rooms like my bedroom are dark with slivers and veins of gold and silver. And every room is designed around the light fixtures and the giant ornate windows.
When the sun rises and sets, it’s so fucking pretty.
But not even the glittering sunsets can make me feel alive right now.
Everything just feels wrong.
My couch is soft and pretty, but it doesn’t feel right. I don’t sink into the cushions like I do at Jordan’s. My bathroom doesn’t have a too-floral-soapy smelling candle that’s never been lit.
There’s no wood here. Not unless you count the bookshelves I built, but even those are painted black. My freezer is missing cookies and cream ice cream. Hell, it’s empty outside of some questionable meat I must’ve forgotten about.
I toss my phone on the sliver of druzy stones that cut across the kitchen island. The sun hits it just right, through the oversized window, catching off the chandelier and making the whole thing sparkle. It took me nearly two months to make the counters because I hadno idea how to cure resin and I kept scraping it and fucking it up. But on the third try, with some help from Britt and YouTube, I got it right.
I set my coffee pot to make a full pot of whatever the fuck it is I have in this house. I grab a bag of whatever’s in the cabinet, not bothering to look at it. My gaze drifts up to the crystal chandelier that hangs over the island. Its crystals glitter, throwing little rainbows all across the room.
All I can think about is how that metal chandelier in Jordan’s living room would look so perfect in here. Amidst all the bright white marble and stone.
The knock on my door pulls me from my thoughts. I look around, startled. I’m not expecting anyone.
My heart lifts for a moment, that vicious hope returning. Maybe it’shim.Maybe he’s finally come to his senses…
Until I remember he hasno ideawhere I live. He’s never been here, and most people don’t know that I live here except for my family and my neighbors. But being as I’m only here for a week or so at a time, it’s not like anyone would come looking for me. Which is something I used to appreciate, but now…
The knock persists, and I sigh. I hope it’s not one of those stupid solicitors trying to sell me a new roof.
When I open the door, my eyes widen in shock and my blood runs cold.
