I wasn't even me to him.I was someone else.Someone named Emma who he was thinking about while his hands were on my body, while his mouth was?—
A sob catches in my throat.I swallow it down, jaw clenched so hard my teeth ache.
I will not cry over this man.
I won't.
But my eyes are burning and my chest is heaving and I can still feel him, his weight, his warmth, the way he groaned my name.Except it wasn't my name, was it?It was hers.Emma.Whoever the fuck she is.
Was.
The sadness in his voice tells me everything I need to know.
I push off the bed, legs unsteady, and grab my clothes from where they're scattered across the floor.My shirt's inside out.I yank it on anyway, not caring, just needing to be covered.To not be bare.
My flat feels too small suddenly.Too quiet.The walls are closing in and I need…I need…
I don't know what I need.
Air.Space.To rewind the last two hours and tell myself to keep my distance, to serve him his pint and nothing else, to not let those dark eyes and that careful attention make me think he was different.
They're all the same.
Every single one of them.
My ex, Declan, used to do this too.Not call me the wrong name—Christ, that would've required him to be thinking about someone other than himself for five seconds—but make me feel like I was nothing.Like I was interchangeable.A warm body.A convenience.
And I swore when I left him, when I packed Warren up in the middle of the night and ran, that I'd never let another man make me feel small again.
But here I am.Small.Humiliated.Stupid.
So fucking stupid.
I pace to the window and press my forehead against the cold glass.Rain's still coming down, hammering against the pane, and somewhere out there Tank is probably halfway across the city, not thinking about me at all.Back to whoever Emma is in his head.Back to his life, where I don't exist.
Good.
That's good.
Except it doesn't feel good.It feels like my chest is caving in.
I hate this.Hate that I care.Hate that for a few hours I let myself believe…
What?That I could have something?That I deserved something?
I should know better by now.
Panic is crawling up my throat now, familiar and vicious.I know this feeling.Know it too well.It starts in my stomach, cold and hollow, then spreads through my limbs until I can't feel my fingers, can't catch my breath, can't think straight.
Declan used to trigger it.When he'd come home drunk and angry, when his voice would go low and dangerous, when I'd see that look in his eyes that meant I needed to be small, quiet, invisible.
I thought I was done with this.I thought I'd healed enough that a man couldn't do this to me anymore.
Wrong again, Enya.
My breath comes in short, sharp gasps.I press my hand to my chest, trying to slow it, trying to ground myself the way the therapist taught me.Five things I can see.Four things I can touch.Three things I can hear.
But all I can see is Tank's face when he realized what he'd said.The horror.The shame.
