Page 31 of One Room Vacancy
That’s what makes it worse.
Because even then, he let it happen—let me pretend while he did the same, and we both called it honesty.
Now he wants to play the version of himself that means well, that’s trying.
And I want so badly to believe him.
But part of me still burns from the last time I did, when he told me that night while he held me in bed that they were reallydone, for good this time. And despite the half-dozen times he’d told me that already, for some reason, that night I believed him.
I wanted to believe him.
So I did.
I let myself fall into him that night—not just my body, butme.
The part of me that swore I wouldn’t do this again, that I could keep it casual, that I wasn’t still hoping.
But hope’s a slippery thing; it doesn’t feel like weakness until you’re choking on it.
And the next day…she was at the wedding. With him, on his arm. Wearing that nauseatingly smug smile, like she knew—like she always knew I was just the stand-in for the in-between.
He didn’t even look at me when they walked in, or maybe he did and I just couldn’t meet his eyes.
Because if I did, I would’ve shattered. Right there in front of everyone.
I left right after the speeches, said I wasn’t feeling well.
And I meant it.
Because I’ve never felt so fucking humiliated in my life.
Sav could tell I was upset, and, given that she found him in my hotel room that morning, I know she knew why.
I’m just really glad she never brought it up again.
So, yeah—when he says,“You don’t have to pretend with me,” all I want to do is laugh, or scream, or kiss him so hard he forgets how many times he made me feel like a second choice.
Instead, I breathe.
One shaky inhale, one long exhale.
And then I turn.
His hands shift with me, sliding to my waist like they never left.
He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t speak. Just watches me—quiet, careful, like he knows he’s standing on the edge of something he has no right to hope for.
I hate how much that hurts, how much I still want him, even after everything. How badly I want to feel better, to shut my brain off. And I hate how I know in my gut he’s the only one who can do that.
My fingers twitch at my sides. Then I reach for him—grab the front of his shirt in both fists and yank him down, closing the distance myself.
His breath stutters, and his hands flex against my hips, like he’s ready to catch me and let go at the same time.
And that’s when he says it.
“You sure about this?”
His voice is rough, small, like he already knows I’m not.
