“Get it together, Esme,” I whisper.
But my voice sounds thin.
Unconvincing.
Because the truth?
I am not together right now.
Not even close.
I reach for the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, dropping it to the tile, followed by everything else.
The quiet of the room presses in around me, broken only by the steady drip of the faucet and the hum of the cheap exhaust fan overhead.
And him.
God.
Benji’s right out there.
Ten feet away.
Maybe less.
After three years of nothing.
Of silence.
Of pretending I don’t still feel everything I feel.
And here I am.
I’m sharing a motel room with Benjamin Gunner like no time has passed at all.
I turn on the shower, stepping under the spray before it’s even fully warmed.
The water hits my skin, and I suck in a breath, bracing my hands against the wall as everything I’ve been holding back finally catches up to me.
I should be furious.
That thought comes fast. Sharp.
Immediate.
I should be so damn mad at him.
For what he said.
For what he believed.
For how easily he let me go.
My throat tightens.
“You believed him instead of me,” I murmur, closing my eyes.
Paul. That slimy, lying—I exhale hard, pressing my forehead against the tile.
