Page 102 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Parker drags both hands down his face. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. And I’m not mad, I promise. I just can’t do this right now, Mack. I can’t manage Dad and you and figure out what’s best for Nana and get all the paperwork lined up, or hire a lawyer or whatever I’m going to have to do all at the same time.”
My voice is small as I say, “I’m not asking you to manage me.”
“I know, but it’s just… It is what it is.” He pins me with his weary gaze. “I think maybe you should go. Just head back to New Orleans, get rested up, and I’ll let you know as soon as I have things sorted out here.”
The words hang between us like a diagnosis I’ve been dreading.
This can’t be happening.
Not again.
“Please,” I whisper. “Don’t send me away.”
Something flickers across his face. Pain maybe. Or just exhaustion so bone-deep it looks like pain.
“I’m not. I’m protecting you.Us,” he says. “I can’t focus on Nana if I’m worried that you and my dad are tearing into each other behind the scenes. And my focus has to be with her right now. I’m sorry.”
He’s already backing away. Not physically—we’re still in the alcove, two steps from the toilets—but inside, he’s already tucking me into a “hard to handle” file to manage at a later date. I’ve gone from his partner to another mess to clean up, a liability to be contained, just like with every other guy I’ve ever dated.
Even Christian, the man who used me like his own personal ATM, felt like he’d had to work too hard to “manage” me. Sometimes I wonder if that’s how he justified cleaning out our joint savings account, even though most of the money in there was mine.
Maybe he felt he deserved it as compensation for all the pain and suffering associated with loving me.
“Fine.” The word tastes sour and awful in my mouth, but I’m not going to beg anymore. Not now or ever again. “I’ll get myself to the airport.”
He sighs. “No, you don’t have to do that. Just let me check on Nana, then I can run you back by the house and?—”
“No, it’s fine.” I force a smile as I start down the hall. “I’ll grab a cab. I saw a few waiting out front yesterday. It’s not a big deal. You take care of Nana.”
“Makena—”
“It’s fine, Parker,” I insist, my jaw aching from holding this stupid grin in place. “You asked me to go, so just let me go, okay? I’ll text you when I get back to the house tonight or…whenever I can get a ticket.”
“Okay,” he says, sounding as lost as I feel. “I’ll text you later. Be safe.”
I nod, somehow making it to the elevator before my hands start shaking.
I take a cab to Nana’s, throw my shit in bags through a sheen of tears, book an astronomically expensive flight for this afternoon, and practically race out to the mailbox to wait for my Uber.
I can’t stand to be inside her house—in that place where I felt so hopeful and at home—another second.
I stand there like a pill bug waiting to be stepped on until Ahmed—White Camry, 4.9 stars—arrives.
“Makena for the airport?” He catches my eye in the rearview mirror as I slide into the back seat. His gaze is warm, open, the kind that makes you want to spill your guts to a stranger.
But I need to keep my guts to myself for a while.
So, all I say is, “Yes, thanks,” before turning to stare out the window.
I’m still afraid to talk too much, afraid that if I really start sobbing, I won’t be able to stop before it’s time to board. And airlines don’t let hysterical people onto the plane; everyone knows that.
The town scrolls past—churches every three blocks, barbecue joints every two, and then nothing but open farmland and green on the way to the small regional airport.
My phone stays dark. No messages. No missed calls. But I’m not surprised. Parker’s doing battle with his father, protecting his grandmother, taking care of his family shit.
And I’m not his family.
I’m the girlfriend who said the wrong thing. Again.
