Page 150 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
Or the knowledge that I’ve ruined the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
It’s not until we’re in Boston, my sorry ass in my hotel room trying to sleep on the mattress that feels lumpy (but isn’t), attempting to get comfortable on the pillow that’s feels too thick (but isn’t), wanting to watch Parking Wars because at least that’ll distract me (but it’s not on TV—or I can’t find it, anyway) that I finally turn on my cell.
I’ve kept it off—not wanting to be tempted…
And it’s not like Faye has texted me.
Why would she?
I broke up with her.
But now, after my phone boots up, it’s her name that pops up on the screen.
Heart twisting, fingers shaking, I tap at the notification.
FAYE: I’ve moved my stuff out and left your key on the counter.
Everything in me seizes, pain rippling through my insides.
I mean…what did I expect?
But also?—
“Fuck,” I hiss sitting up straight and shoving a hand through my hair, clutching at the locks.
This is what I said I wanted—or if it’s not what I wanted then it’s what I had to do. Because it’s what’s best for Faye.
Sighing, I toss my phone aside.
Don’t respond.
Let her move on.
Don’t drag her back into the bullshit, that’s my fucked-up ability to ruin good things, that’s?—
Buzz. Buzz.
FAYE: Thank you for being so kind.
Strands of silken red hair spread on my pillow.
Banana bread crumbs on her cheek.
Her beautiful laugh tinkling through the air.
FAYE: I’ve decided to not rebuild. It’s…nothing’s left for me there. I just wanted you to know.
My lungs freeze, not working for so long that my vision starts to go hazy, black intruding on the edges.
It was bad enough Smitty was giving me shit and Aiden was looking at me like I was an idiot and Leo was telling me he might ask Faye out because I need to be prepared for some other guy to see how great she is and snap her up.
But…
Not being able to make sure she’s okay just next door, not being able to make sure that man is treating her right…
Not being able to be certain she’s happy and safe and secure…
“Fuck,” I whisper, throat tight, eyes burning, stomach tying itself into knots. The silence of the room is overbearing, stifling…but not as stifling as my thoughts.
