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And there was no doubt in my mind that I was in love with him. There was a difference between loving someone and being in love and I had let it slip through my fingers.
Cam had enough.
He’d trusted me, and in a way, I’d thrown that trust back in his face. If he’d known everything, things could’ve gone down differently between us Wednesday night. But I had remained silent, like I had all these years.
At some point during Saturday, the deep cutting sorrow gave way to something else. I threw off the blanket and stood in the middle of the room, breathing in raggedly. Spinning around, I picked up a bottle of lotion and threw it across the room. The bottle hit the closet door and then thudded off the floor.
Not satisfied, I grabbed another bottle and threw it harder. That one hit the wall, cracking the plaster. There went my security deposit.
I didn’t care.
Anger rose around me like a hot steam. I whirled, pulling the comforter and sheets off the bed.
Then I attacked my closet.
I hated the boring sweaters, the turtlenecks, the cardigans, and the ill-fitting shirts. I hated everything, but most of all, I hated myself for doing this. Crying out, I yanked them down. Hangers rocked and fell to the floor. Tears blurred my eyes as I turned, seeking something else to destroy, but there really wasn’t anything. No pictures to throw. No paintings to rip from the walls. There was nothing. I was so pissed—pissed at myself.
Moving to the hallway, I leaned against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut. Breathing heavily, I kicked my head back and bit back a scream.
The silence was killing me.
And that’s all there ever was. Silence. It was all I knew. Keep quiet. Pretend nothing had happened, that nothing was wrong. And look how well that was turning out.
I slid down the wall and opened my eyes. They were as dry as I felt on the inside, brittle.
Who did I have to blame for that? Blaine? His parents? Mine? Did it matter? Never once did I stand up to my parents and tell them what I thought. I just shut up and took it—took it until I could run away.
Problem was, running away wasn’t working anymore. It never worked in the first place and how long did it take me to figure that out? Five years, almost six? And how many miles? Thousands?
And then, like fucking clockwork, I heard my phone ring from the living room.
Shoving to my feet, I stalked out there, the back of my skull tingling as I saw UNKNOWN CALLER flash across the screen. I grabbed the phone and pressed the answer button.
“What?” I said, my voice shaking.
Nothing. More fucking silence.
“What the fuck do you want from me?” I demanded. “What? You have nothing to say? You’ve only been calling and texting for nine months? I’d think you’d have a shit ton to say.”
There was another pregnant pause and then, “I can’t believe you answered.”
My eyes widened. Holy shit, the voice belonged to a girl. The person who was calling me and most likely emailing me was a girl.
A girl.
Who knows what I expected, but I sure as hell didn’t expect a girl.
I could only say one word. “Why?”
“Why?” The girl coughed out a dry laugh. “You have no idea who you’re talking to, do you? You didn’t even read a single email I sent you? Not one?”
She was questioning me? “Well, when I saw the content in a couple of them, I decided to not torture myself.”
“I’ve been emailing you since June, trying to talk to you. There was nothing wrong with the first couple of emails I sent you. If you just read one of them, you would’ve seen that. Then again, why should I even believe that you didn’t read them since you have such an infamous background of telling the truth.”
Plopping down, I frowned. “Who are you?”
“God, this is fucking unbelievable. My name is Molly Simmons.”
