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“I didn’t wreck it.” I glance Clara’s way again. She’ll chime in. Any minute.
“I told you this is what would happen if you continued on this reckless path.” Edwin Forbes is looking right at me as he slides his arm around Clara’s shoulder.
“What the fuck?” Is he talking to me or Clara? “Tell them,” I plead as the officer pulls out his cuffs. “Clara!”
Her gaze drops to the ground.
“My daughter is distressed,” Forbes says. “If we could save the questions for tomorrow, officers, I’d like to take her home.”
“Tell them it’s your car—that you were driving!” My attention snaps to the cop. “She had an accident. She called me! Look at my phone—I went to pick her up.”
“That’s not true, Troy.” Her father’s smile is so thin. “You took the car without permission. Without my permission. I saw you do it. Why, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find you’re over the limit.”
“Fuck you,” I growl. And I do something foolish as I lunge at him.
“Did you see—did you see that? I’d like to add menacing to the charges this young man faces.”
The officer looks between us, the cuffs clinking in his hand.
“Clara,” I plead one last time. “Look at me.”
“She’s in shock, clearly. This young man took advantage of her good nature. Of her naivety. I want him removed from my home.”
“Sir, I’m going to need you to come with us.”
“This is so fucking wrong.” I want to fight the whole world right now.
“Sir.”
I look to Clara one more time. “I can’t believe you’re letting this happen.”
But she just stands there, her father’s arm around her shoulders. His perfect Park Avenue princess. How could I have been so wrong? She doesn’t think I’m someone. I’m trash to her. She’s just like the rest of this town’s entitled fucks.
My heart in my boots and the worst kind of despair swilling though my insides, I allow the police officer to lead me toward the squad car.
Whatever happens next, whatever I lose because of tonight, I’ll carry the knowledge that, when it mattered most, the woman I love didn’t love me enough back.
Chapter 50
Troy
The apartment is quiet in a way I’ve never experienced it before. Though not for the want of construction noise but for the want of her. I sit as still as any statue until long after she’s gone, palms flat against the tabletop, coffee cold, and my laptop in sleep mode. I just stare at the space she stood as she unhooked her key. It’s almost as though I’m just waiting for her to reappear. Maybe then I’d ask her why she’s really doing this, instead of just sitting here, trying to absorb the absence of her.
She spoke so calmly. Reasonably, even. She was prepared—had already packed. And she’d rehearsed those words. That much felt true. The rest, though. It felt a little too much like a made-for-TV-moment. Like an actor playing a surgeon amputating a limb.
Clean cut, straight through. Make it look real.
Why the fuck didn’t I try to stop her? Why didn’t I speak up? Why the fuck didn’t I tell her she was wrong about there being nothing else to stay for. Instead, I let her construct a logic like it was a gospel.
It doesn’t have to be dramatic.
The reasons for this marriage are no more.
It’s for the best.
The world according to Clara.
But she is wrong—and so am I for letting her walk out the door like she hasn’t just punched her fist through my ribs to grab at my cold, dead heart. It was fear, not strength, that kept me in my fucking seat.
