I can’t take that away from him. Even if I had absolute proof that he’d used me like this.
Do I have proof? He didn’t deny to Olivia that he’d known they were there at all. He said he didn’t know they’d gotten that footage, but maybe because he already knew the shot had been ruined by the balcony. Or maybe he was just saying that so carefully, because he knew I was right there in the bathroom, and—
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, and there’s a desperate quality to his voice. “Can I still contact you?” He bites his lower lip. “Look, if you give me a chance, I’ll prove to you that you can trust me.”
My whole being feels racked. It’s what I want, but— “People can pretend for a long time,” I say, barely above a whisper.
“Are you still leaving the show?” he asks.
I want to. I want to and I don’t.
Do I leave with my tail between my legs, just waiting for them to air my shit all over the world and do nothing about it? Do I run and hide?
The thought makes me furious, and the fury feelsgood, cutting through the hurt and fear and loss that are smothering me.
“You were the one who said that I don’t strike you as a quitter,” I say.
His expression darkens. “So you’re just going to go back to datinghim?”
I want to bark out the bitterest laugh at that, but there’s no humor in any of this, even the bitter kind. I honestly didn’t even think about dating Preston when I said that. I’m not sure what that says about me, but whatever it is, it’s not good.
None of this is good. No matter what I do.
“I don’t know, Nate,” I say honestly. “I really don’t know.”
There’s this look of hurt on his face that kills me, and I can’t stay here anymore. I can’t bear seeing that hurt on the face of the man I’m desperately in love with, and I can’t bear wondering if it’s actually real.
So I leave, and Nate doesn’t try to stop me.
I peek out the door first, see that the hallway is empty. I make my way quickly out and down the hall, duck back when I see someone pass by the cross hall, and let out a small sigh of relief when it’s only room service.
I don’t think I care at this moment about being caught for myself. So they throw me off the show; they make that choice for me. Better than me just slinking off.
But I still want to protect Nate. I think I’ll always want to. I think I’ll always want to believe, and I hate myself for it.
It’s not even him I’m furious at. It’s me. I trusted myself, my heart.
What’s wrong with you, Becca?
I make my way back into the bedroom. Londyn’s already in bed, sound asleep.The girl can sleep like the dead, but snores a hell of a lot louder.
I sit on the edge of my bed, feeling like I might shatter.
I have to hold it together. I have to try to make the best of this.
They’re going to make me a victim with that footage.They only have the audio, and they’ll use the worst pieces. No context. Just me as a weak, sobbing puddle.There’s no way I can control what they release, no way to salvage Rob’s reputation for my in-laws and the girls.
Thea may know some of it already, but I’d rather her—or Rosie—not find out the details that way.
If they’re going to find out anyway, I want them to know me as a survivor. I want them to know me on my terms, as much as I can manage.
Which means I need to give the show what they want. I need to make the storymine.
The room is mostly dark, but I can see the outline of the journal on my desk. Pages and pages of dreams of a future with Nate. A future that, for a moment, I let myself believe I could have. But I’m too messed up for that—I’m too broken to ever know what I can trust and what I can’t.
I’m too likely to get destroyed all over again.
Part of me wants to rip up every page, throw it in the trash. But I can’t bring myself to do it, so I just curl up in my bed and cry.
