Page 125 of Bloom

And it must be because she loves her husband. She loves her husband, she wants him back, and I’m stopping that from happening.

She loves her husband, and I’m the vicious homewrecker ruining her life.

She loves her husband, and I’m the worst person alive for lo—likinghim too. I’m even worse for being mad that she loves him. For hoping with everything I have that he doesn’t love her too. For praying to a god I don’t believe in that Hunter told me the truth, that it’s over, that he doesn’t want her, that he doesn’t want me to be done because he wantsme.

By the time I get back to my truck, I’m not just mad; I’m on the verge of tears. Again. For the god-knows-how-many-th time in the past week. Because I’m overwhelmed for the god-knows-how-many-th time in the past week, and when I’m overwhelmed, I cry. Sniffling, I rub at my leaking eyes, wincing at the sharp sting of tender skin and wanting to cry all the more at the reminder that I am a disaster of a person—I can’t even remember to put on sunscreen, that’s how bad I am at being alive.

My ass hits the worn leather of my driver’s seat a second before my forehead hits the steering wheel, a defeated noise leaving me. A canine body wriggles onto my lap and I drop ahand to Herc’s furry back, I stroke Mama with the other, and I let both ground me.

I’m so focused on keeping myself together, I don’t hear the vibration of my phone until Mama starts growling at the foreign noise. And I’m so distracted, I almost answer without checking the caller ID first, the phone halfway to my ear before I pause.

And I laugh, just a little, at the unknown number on my screen as that familiar foreboding feeling sinks its claws in.

When it rains, it freaking pours.

As I stare at the screen, I find another thing to be angry about. Another person to be angry at. Because beside the glass flower left on my doorstep, I haven’t heard fromhimin a month. And I know he’s not calling to apologize; I know that after everything, he still thinks I’ll rush to bail him out.

I almost do. I almost pick up the phone, I almost press answer, I almost give into the child-like part of me still so desperate for a paternal love and affection I lost long ago. The urge is so strong, I have to sit on my hands, squeeze my eyes shut, hum to cover the ear-splitting, incessant buzz.

Letting it ring out doesn’t feel as good as I expect it to.

No, it just feels so incredibly lonely.

It’s paranoia, I’m sure, but I swear someone’s watching me.

An ominous pit in my stomach, I glance anxiously over my shoulder as I fumble with my keys, taking twice as long as usual to locate the one for the front door. Just as I slide it into the lock, the sound of my name makes me jump, my keys hitting the floor with a clang that drives the dogs wild.

Spinning around, relief is only a fleeting emotion when I lay eyes on the man lurking a few feet away. “What’re you doing here?”

Cautiously, Hunter brandishes the grocery bags in his grip. “Thought I could make you dinner.”

I scoff a sad, defeated noise as I stoop to retrieve my keys. “Thought you already had dinner plans.”

Hunter doesn’t match my retort with one of his own. He remains silent, staring, emanating this calm composure that only serves to irk me further. “What?” I snip when the weight of his gaze gets too much for my poor, overstimulated self to handle.

“You wanna talk?” he drawls, quiet and crooning and careful. “Or you wanna yell?”

His tone is like a chisel, chipping away at my patience, at my willpower, at the freaking paper-thin wall holding frustrated, defeated tears at bay. “Don’t condescend to me,” I snap because snapping is so very easy. “I know I’m yourtwenty-year-old walk on the wild side, but I’m not a child.”

It’s like the light goes out in Hunter’s eyes, that subtle smile dropping along with his hands. “Who said that?” he asks, but something tells me it’s not a real question. Something tells me he knows the answer; it’s just not the answer he wants.

And boy, does that do a little something to fuel my ire. “Your wife. Remember her? Tall, beautiful, still in town?”

His grimace is telling. So telling. Of so many things, too many things, enough to make my mind spin with all the possibilities. He doesn’t like that Cheryl talked to me, that much is clear. The why, not so much. Because of what she said? Because of what she might have said, a secret she might’ve revealed, something else he’s hiding from me? Because of what I might have said, what I might have revealed, something else he’s hiding from her?

“You talked to her,” is all he says, grim and giving nothing away.

As paranoia rears its ugly head again to try to convince me there’s an accusation lurking somewhere in that statement, I turn away to let myself into the store. The dogs rush in first, barking their way upstairs, and as Hunter follows behind me, I feel the need to clarify, “She came to see me.”

A pause. “You okay?”

Something between a scoff, a snort, and a wail escapes me. Letting my bag drop to the floor with a loud thud, I force myself to face him again, force myself to ask, “Why did you file for divorce?”

Hunter gives me that look. The one that disarms me, makes me dizzy, makes me weak and forgiving and useless. “You know why.”

I shake my head, fingers twitching where they rest on my hips as I fight the urge to cup my cheeks, to cover their instinctive reddening—he filed after we kissed, I know that, but that’s not what I’m asking. “I mean whynow? Why not when you left? Why did you wait for six wholemonths?”

“Because I needed time, Caroline.”

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