Page 115 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

He told me that the worst thing he could imagine is me with someone else. He has nightmares about it. But I'm positive the fear of being anything like Arlo is deeper and more pervasive than he realizes. I don't condone violence, but this wasn't violence. Far from it. This was self-defense, mentally, emotionally, physically. All of the above. Same as with Philip. He was playing a sport the first time and protecting me the second. I haven't had time to really process what Philip did, how he grabbed me, but the spike of panic made my throat close. The possibility of getting hurt terrified me, even if it was over before anything started.

Does Rusty think he crossed the line there, too?

Our food comes, and the Chicks take their leave. I jump up and give all three of them hugs. "Thank you for telling me what happened." I pull back and look at the emotion on their strong, lined faces. "And thank you for keeping an eye on him."

"You're a good one," Chick Parkinson says. "You earned our support, but even if you hadn't, we'd give it to you."

"Especially over that slick-talking Yankee."

"Thanks. That means a lot."

After they go, Lou and I stare at each other. She shakes her head and starts into her hush puppies and pulled pork. After a few bites, she asks, "How on earth did an angel like Rusty come from a monster like Arlo Fielding?"

"I have no idea," I say. "But I'm going to make sure Rusty knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is nothing like his father."

The miserable cuss.

CHAPTER THIRTY

ASH

Idon't see Rusty all week. When I text, he responds with thumbs-ups and hearts, but nothing else. No context, and no expressions of love or longing.

We haven't texted so little since the first week we met.

By Thursday night, I can't handle the radio silence. No matter how much I promised myself I'd be understanding and patient, the thumbs ups and hearts have been a study in mind games. Even with my melatonin, I’m not sleeping, and let me tell you, me without sleep ain’t pretty. So at nine at night, I drive to his house to find his truck parked in his driveway. All the lights are off except in the master bedroom, which faces the street.

I walk up to the door, but my hand hesitates before I can knock. I shoot off a text.

ASH

Hey Farm Boy. I miss you.

RUSTY

Hey, long day, sorry.

Any chance you could use company? I'm close by and could come over.

Watching Rusty's room, I see him come to the window. He's holding what looks like his sketch pad in one hand, and he closes the blinds with the other. A moment later, he turns the light off, and my heart drops.

Tonight probably won't work. I'm just about to go to sleep.

A wave of shock hits me. All I can do is respond with a thumbs up of my own. I drive home in a state of numbness. No amount of reminding myself what the Chicks said helps. Rusty said he loves me. I believed him. And now he's ghosting me.

He’s not ghosting you. He’s processing his trauma.

But why can’t he process it with me?

Until this moment, I was 99% sure that Rusty wasn’t avoiding me but rather working through years of pain. But now, after days of no communication and such a clear rejection, my confidence level has plummeted.

No, that’s dumb. This is the sleeplessness talking.

But then, Philip said he loved me. Frank used to tell the world he loved me on social media. Greg says he loves me, but I’m the only person in my family with a different last name.

The only thing these men all have in common is me.

I look around my disastrous room. Clothes on the floor. Clutter on counters and in corners. Art supplies and the signs of a dozen different hobbies I've started and never finished scattered all over my desk and chair. It's a disturbing representation of the mess that is my brain.

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