CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Whitney
W ater leak at my place, my ass.
Despite all my inner turmoil over the lie, I still smile.
He wanted to keep me there with him.
Given all that has transpired, I love how that makes me feel. However, I’m silently freaking out about it.
There was no water leak at my complex. No torn-up sidewalk or construction in progress. The only improvements were that my back and front doors had been replaced. Both now have security screens on them—no doubt an addition Hardy couldn’t help himself with.
But everything else looks the exact same.
I sit on the bed and look at the person I was. Strangely, I no longer feel like I’m her anymore. Then I look around my tiny apartment, noticing the clothes on the rack I use like a closet. The pictures on my bookshelf that are my past. The old china dishes I bought at a garage sale—dishes no doubt someone would save and only use on holidays. I use them daily.
It’s not that there is anything wrong with any of these things. It’s just that Hardy changed me. He dared me to think I was better and that I deserved more.
Then why did his words drive me away? Why did something I’ve always longed for—to be loved, to feel loved, to be wanted—steal my words and terrify my heart?
Fear.
Isn’t that what it’s always come down to? How I’ve lived my life?
I rise from my bed and grab my uniform—soccer shorts, tank top, sports bra—and bury my face in them. They smell like the old me. My perfume laced with the fear to hope and the uncertainty of what’s to come.
I’m not quite sure if I like that scent anymore after being so used to the one Hardy picked out for me. The one that’s a reminder that it’s okay to actually dream. That hope is a tool...not something to fear. And how even with a shitty upbringing, you can still flourish.
“Ugh.” I fall back onto my bed, close my eyes, and relive every moment of last night.
He bought me a foosball table. And it’s not the purchase that got me. It’s the fact he tried to bring me my comfort items. He knew I was struggling and tried to give me what he thought I needed.
What I needed was him.
And then when he gave it to me—when he told me he’d fallen for me—I ran.
Funny how he was able to adjust his ways and open up at a chance with me, and here I am, stuck in my ways and lost in the past.
Fuck.
Just fuck.
When people show you who you are, they say believe it.
I’m sorry, Hardy. I just showed you who I was. Who I am. I’m sorry she’s not good enough to deserve you.