Page 115 of Bloom

“Hello?” The woman, the wife,Cheryl, crooks a perfect brow, irritation lacing her tone. “I’m looking for Hunter Whitlock,” she repeats slowly, patronizingly, in the same Southern drawl as Hunter except I find no comfort in her tone. It's not soothing or peaceful, not a sound I want to listen to on repeat forever.

It's mocking, cloying, overwhelming. It makes me dizzy.Shemakes me dizzy—I'm too disoriented to form a single word or thought or to truly process what the hell is going on right now.

A hand lands on my shoulder. “Caroline,” Lux says so quietly, so carefully. “Go inside.”

I can’t. I can’t move. I wish I could, I really wish I could, especially when a figure I know so well emerges from the barn and starts towards us, and I start to pray it’s all a lie. I hope for a twisted practical joke. I call on every ounce of good karma I might’ve wracked up over the years.

But then Hunter gets close enough to recognize the new arrival. And he does—he does recognize her. And I wonder if everyone can hear my heart break as loudly as I can.

A myriad of emotions flash across his face in a matter of seconds, and I don’t know if guilt not being among them is a good or a bad thing. I don’t know if it’s good or bad when his expression hardens—so angry, so resentful, sohurt—and he barks, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Cheryl smiles. Like his reaction humors her, like this is one big game, shesmiles. “Thought I’d surprise you, honey.”

I flinch. Hunter does too. His gaze flits to me, softening with something apologetic and I flinch again because if he’s apologizing, that means he’s done something wrong, right? Regardless of how emphatically he insists, “It’s not what you think.”

“Really?” Lux’s tight grip on my arm is as harsh as her spat question. “That’s all you’ve got?”

Hunter’s mouth opens, but the sharp‘ah’of bitter understanding doesn’t leave him. Nor does, “I see you got yourself a girlfriend. They come from red lips quirked at the edges, as morbidly amused as the crystalline eyes flitting down the length of me. “She’scute.”

A handful of brisk strides plant Hunter in front of me, his back blocking my view—and blocking me from view too. “Don’t, Cheryl. I mean it.”

“Oh, youlikeher.” A tittering, sarcastic laugh stains the air. “Adorable. Truly. A little young, but I suppose you did that to hurt me, right? Traded me in for a newer model? Real fuckin’ cliché, Hunt.”

Hunt.My ears burn. My eyes burn. My skin burns too, a scorching layer of disgust and mortification and bitter, bitter disappointment coating it. I don’t realize I’ve wrapped my arms around myself, that my nails are digging into my flesh hard enough to leave marks until someone pulls them away, and I find the sting of pain is a welcome respite from everything else, too soon eclipsed by a saccharine voice.

“The protective thing is fun at first, sweetie.” Even without seeing her, I know Cheryl is talking to me; the mockery dripping from her words gives her away. “But trust me, when you can’t even talk to another man without him bitchin’, it’ll wear off.”

I watch the muscles of a broad back ripple with agitation beneath the white material covering them. “It wasn’t thetalkin’I had a problem with.”

The obvious innuendo has Lux and I exchanging frowns.

“Really?” Cheryl scoffs. “You’re gonna hold that against me forever?”

“Youfuckin’other men? Yeah, Cheryl, I think I will.”

Hunter doesn’t yell yet his voice still booms around the yard, almost tangible in its ferocity. He’s shaking with anger and, despite everything, I find myself wanting to ease it. I find myself shuffling a step closer and fisting his t-shirt—reminding him I’m there or holding him back, I’m not sure. Either way, the trembling eases.

“So, what?” Cheryl huffs, and I picture her standing there, arms crossed, impatiently tapping one undoubtedly expensive shoe. “This is you gettin’ back at me?”

Thick fingers quickly wrap around my wrist, stopping my hand from abruptly dropping. “This,” he squeezes gently, “has nothing to do with you.”

Another snide scoff aggravates the ache brewing behind my eyes, in my temples,everywhere. I’m reaching my limit; drowning in so much devastating confusion, hovering on the edge of a breakdown. I almost collapse when someone else joins the conversation, briefly finding relief from the choking tension, a distraction from this train wreck.

Until I realize who it is, that is.

“You must be Cheryl,” I hear Jackson greet, and when I peer around Hunter, I find my ex-boyfriend shaking the hand of the wife of the only other man to ever touch me, the only other man I’ve spent the night with—the man Ijustspent the night with. Introducing himself.Welcomingher. Acting like he’s been expecting her.

The ground beneath my feet wobbles.

As she returns the introduction, the redhead’s smile is nothing short of cunning. There’s no escaping the emphasis she puts on her surname, nor the pointed glance she casts Hunter’sway. Jackson frowns, glancing between the pair—thecouple. “Whitlock?”

Cheryl hums, the simple sound rife with smug satisfaction. “My husband speaks so highly of this place,” she says, and that one word has me retreating too fast for Hunter to stop me, stumbling back a step while my stomach churns. “So I thought I’d come see it for myself. Although, I guess it wasn’t the scenery he was enjoying so much, hm?”

There it is. My limit. Mytoo much.

As bile rises in my throat, I take another step back. Then another. On the next, I pivot, following the trail to the place my brain automatically deems safe. Someone calls my name, someone else yells, but I barely hear it—I don’t want to hear it.

Too shaky to scale the ladder to the loft, I settle for collapsing beside it, the rough barn walls scraping my skin as I slide down to the ground, my knees finally fulfilling their promise of giving out. Hugging them to my chest, I close my eyes.

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