Page 93 of Blocked Score

“Please, Scarlett,” he implores.

Even though I felt that twinge of sympathy when I saw his hurt reaction to me pulling away from him, I don’t feel like I owe him anything. I gave him everything I had to give, and he never treated me the same way. Not only that, but he ruined what Lane and I could have had together at the end of my Chicago trip.

It’s the first time since I turned around and saw him that that realization hits me, and a wave of anger rushes through me. A wave of outrage as I fully realize everything he did: stalked me in Chicago, broke into Demi’s house to steal my phone, and sent a fake message in my name to sabotage me and Lane.

That’s way beyond shitty boyfriend behavior. Shitty boyfriend behavior is when he slept with one of my coworkers, the thing that finally spurred me to break up with him for the last time a couple months before I moved out here.

No, what he did in Chicago was downright criminal.

But maybe if I give him what he wants, a chance to spew all the bullshit out of his mouth that he thinks might win me back,and then make it totally clear to him in no uncertain terms that he has zero chance, and flatly and firmly tell him that if he ever tries to contact me again I’m going to the police over what he did in Chicago, maybe that’ll be enough to totally wipe out the last remnants of hope he’s still carrying that there can ever be any future with us.

“There’s a café down this way,” I say, turning and walking toward Brumehill Brews, not even glancing at him behind me.

I don’t bother to order anything, just sitting down at a table and letting him get it over with.

I let Caleb’s words filter in one ear and out the other as he babbles on. One thing I do notice about his speech is a distinct lack of apology. No apology about how he slept with my coworker. No apology about how he treated me like crap and took me for granted the entire time we were together.

“I know we could work out this time,” he says. “I could even move up here, find a job and?—”

“No,” I stop him. I’ve finally had enough. “That’s never going to happen, Caleb. You need to understand that. I sat here and let you say what you needed to say so that you’d get it out of your system. But now what you need to do is accept that we’re over. For good.”

His hands curl into fists on the surface of the table that separates us. “You’re with that hockey player again, aren’t you?”

The anger rushes back into me. How dare he have the gall to bring up Lane after what he did?

“Yes, I am. And we’re staying together this time. I know what you did, Caleb. I should go to the police over it. But I’m willing to let it lie, as long as you never contact me again.”

He shakes his head. “I was just protecting you.”

“Protecting me?” I repeat his words, outraged. I shouldn’t let him get a rise out of me, but I’m so taken aback by his audacity that I can’t help it.

“You know that guy was just using you for a fun time, the same as he’s doing now.” He scoffs. “Come on, he’s on his way to the NHL. What kind of future do you think he sees with you?”

I shouldn’t let anything Caleb says affect me, but I’m ashamed to admit that his words are like a javelin slicing between my ribs. They just hit too close to home with where my mind’s been lately.

“You’re wrong, Caleb,” I answer. “And it wouldn’t matter even if you weren’t. Because us? There is no us anymore, and there never will be. I came here so you could have a chance at closure, and this is it. Like I said, if you contact me again, I’m going to the police about what you did in Chicago. This is goodbye.”

I stand up from the table—but as I walk past him, he grabs my wrist.

47

LANE

While walking past Brumehill Brews on my way home after class, I spot something through the glass windows of the café that stops me in my tracks.

Scarlett’s sitting at a table, across from a guy, with an expression of distress and unhappiness on her face that instantly has protectiveness lacing through my blood.

My gaze whips to the guy sitting across from her—and my heart skips a beat, because I recognize him.

It’s a glimmer of recognition, dredged from deep inside my memories.

When I mentally fit the pieces together, it’s like a bolt of lightning strikes at the base of my neck.

I saw that face in Chicago.

I remember seeing it a couple times, thinking it strange that I spotted him maybe half a dozen times over the last couple days I was spending with Scarlett.

It was usually at a distance that I glimpsed him, and never for more than a couple seconds, so I always dismissed it as one of those notable but minor coincidences. It was easy to never even think of it again once I left the city.

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