Page 4 of Last Resort

Or am I?

The thought sucker-punches me. The truth of it knocking the wind from me as Lizzy drones on in my ear.

Has he beaten me down that much? So much so that thoughts of how much he needs me overrides my own well-being? That his constant refrain about how he’d fall apart without me taking care of him has become more important than who is taking care of me?

And yet I repeat the company line. “Lizzy. He needs me—”

“Don’t you dare sit there and think he’d be devastated without you,” she starts. “He’s a grown-ass man, able to take care of himself. He has manipulated you into thinking that if you ever leave him, he’ll crumble. That’s his problem. Not yours.”

“It’s not as easy as you think.” I’m embarrassed to even utter those words because I’m in my mid-twenties and should have my life together. Lizzy’s aware of my mountains of student debt but not my almost non-existent savings. There’s nowhere in New York I can live on my own.

I grimace.

That’s not a good enough reason to be living with Clint.

My God. Is that why I’ve stayed?

“I know it’s not easy. In fact, I know it’s harder than hell because he’s stolen so much from you and conditioned you to believe that you can’t do it.”

“We live together. I can’t just up and leave and—”

“You can, Sutt. You actually can just up and leave. I told you before that you’re welcome to stay with me till you figure shit out. That offer is still there.”

“Thank you.” It’s all but a whisper because her words are screaming in my head and beginning to drown out the oppressive fear that has owned me for longer than I want to admit.

It’s a weird thing to know what the right thing to do is—to want to do it—but to fall victim to the guilt and shame over why you can’t.

“I miss my friend who used to dance on bar tops with me and the one who’d call me to go get ice cream at three in the morning because she was working late and missed me. I miss your laughter and your sense of humor. I will never forgive him for stealing that from you. Sutt, I just miss you.”

I cough over the sob stuck in my throat as I make a hasty exit from my office to the bathroom where I can hide to gather my composure.

“Lizz . . .” My hiccup echoes around the empty tile room as I lock the door behind me. “I’m still here. I’m still me. I’m . . .”

“And I still love you.”

Her words hurt too much to hear. “I have to go.”

With my back against the door, I slide down to the floor, tears flowing and emotion overwhelming me.

She’s right.

She’s right, and I’m terrified because is this moment—right now—the straw that breaks the camel’s proverbial back?

The question is, do I want it to be?

The tears come harder as I sit unladylike on the expensive marble floor and allow myself a moment to feel sorry for myself. And then a few more to come to grips with everything Lizzy just laid out on the table.

My phone alerts a text.

Lizzy: Are you okay?

Me: I will be.

Lizzy: I love you. I only want the best for you.

I sniffle as the screen blurs through my tears. I shove them away with the back of my hand and take a deep breath. I then type the hardest question I’ve asked in forever.

Me: How do I do this?