So many famous and wealthy clients, proven by the photographs taken over just... one twenty-four-hour period.
He was there.
Kit was there last night after leaving me.
My beef sandwich turns to a lead weight in my stomach. I swallow strongly against the idea of its reappearance, doing what I can to shut my emotions down.
I carefully fold the newspaper closed, the sheer force of my own will preventing me from breaking down. I glance at my watch and calculate how much longer I have to be here at work. It doesn’t do to see the doctor crying, even if she feels like her heart has been dropped from a great height.
Fin is, of course, in Scotland when I get home. I’m not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.
Could this be over before it has even begun?
Why am I hurting? How come it was so easy to let go of Jon, yet Kit’s words feel like they’ve pried open my chest? This is exactly why I should be stronger, why I should avoid relationships. I should’ve gotten in mykeep-it-casualproposal first... and I really am an idiot if I believe that would’ve kept my heart from his reach.
Less that twenty hours ago, he asked if he could keep me. Could he truly have gone to the club to fuck someone else? Could those words have meant so little to him?
God, I feel like such an idiot.
‘I’m tired of feeling like this,’ I say to the empty flat. Only this doesn’t feel like last time—like Jon. I mean. I feel... sad, not angry. My pride isn’t hurt.Ihurt!
Iwantto feel angry—it was so much easier to deal with.
‘I’m tired of being taken for an idiot.’
But I’m not an idiot. Maybe I’m just someone who keeps falling for utter pricks.
I spend the whole evening wondering if he’s seen it. Is he waiting for my call so he can sell me more pretty lies? Maybe he thinks such a tabloid rag is beneath me and that I’ll never see? Or that news doesn’t carry through the concrete walls of a hospital?
Will he choose to tread the same path as Jon with clichéd denials?
Or maybe there’s a better explanation. And maybe if I called him, I could find out.
But I don’t want to call him. I don’t want to listen to him as I endured Jon.The voicemails, apologies, and excuses delivered so reasonably.
I want to watch his eyes—his face—as he explains.
I just want to know I can trust myself to trust him.
