Page 92 of Don't Say You're Sorry

Eventually, she exhausts herself and stumbles back a few steps. Tears are streaming down her face as she looks me dead in the eye. “I put up with a lot of shit from you, Easton, but I won’t put up with this. Don’t ever talk to me again. We’re done.”

“Lauren—”

Judging by the look she hits me with, daring to speak to her was the wrong thing to do. Pulling a fucking pocketknife from the pocket of her hoodie, she flicks it open and slashes three of my tires. I snap my lips shut, not saying a word as she turns her back on me.

She turned her back on me.

And just like that, I’m back on the street outside my dad’s house two years ago, unable to move as Adam did the exact same thing to me.

A sharp, familiar pain cocoons my chest, and I almost choke on it.

“Hey, Miller,” Anna calls from the window, chucking a roll of trash bags at me. “Do me a solid and crawl into one of those, asshole.”

I nod, chewing the inside of my cheek.

Looking down at all my shit on the ground, I search for the envelope I kept hidden in the closet, praying it’s here and that Lauren didn’t burn it. I don’t give a fuck about the rest of it, just as long as she didn’t destroy that envelope.

I find it at the bottom of the pile, opening it up and checking that the drawings Adam’s sent me over the years are still inside. They are. Letting out a slow breath, I go to my car, grab my gym bag, and tuck the envelope inside to keep it safe.

Crouching down to pick up the trash bags, I tear one off and begin bagging up the rest of my stuff. I toss my ruined clothes into the trash cans at the back of the building and take the rest with me.

Before I go, I take one last look at the apartment I’ve lived in for a year. Something that feels a lot like relief washes over me. I hate myself for it.

When I get far enough away that Lauren doesn’t have to look at me out the window, I toss my stuff on the ground, take a seat on the sidewalk, and call Carter.

“Hey. You found your phone.”

“Yeah,” I say. Lauren must have hidden it from me before I left for class this morning. She told me she was sick. The soup I was bringing her is still sitting on the passenger seat of my car.

“E, you there?”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Can you pick me up?”

“Why? Something wrong with your car?”

I shake my head, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Can you just come, please? I need a ride.”

He’s quiet for a moment. I hear Nate saying something to him in the background.

“Yeah,” Carter says. “We’re on our way.”

“Carter?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you not bring Nate with you?”

“Uh, okay. I’ll drop him off first and then I’ll be there.”

“Thanks.”

I hang up and clutch my fingers around my phone, tapping it against my chin. It’s eight p.m. in London right now. I stare at the ground between my feet and wonder what he’s doing. It’s Friday night. Is he at home with Axel? Is he out with friends? A guy? Is that why he won’t speak to me? Because he’s found somebody new to love him?

My nostrils flare at the thought.

I text him.

Easton

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