Chapter 30
Zara
It shouldn’t be taking me so long to pack and move on, but I'm well aware of why I'm dragging my feet.
He's the reason I haven't just thrown the last of my shit into a box and stuffed it into the small pull-behind rented trailer I went into town and got earlier today.
It's late, the sun having gone down many hours ago. The visit from Tommy yesterday seems like a distant memory, as if it happened longer ago than it really did.
It means it feels like weeks rather than two days since I saw Hemlock.
The anger has faded and it has left me wishing things were different and wondering what choices I could've made that would've left me in his path.
Was quitting the bar the right choice?
Should I have stuck around a little longer?
Is he constantly thinking of me the way I am thinking of him?
I know the answer to that. I've deduced from the half-assed conversation I had with him that he was focused on Tommy and that man's wrongdoings, and I was just a means to an end for him. He probably thought I knew more than I did. When he realized that Tommy hadn't told me anything, I became useless to him. I feel like garbage tossed out of a car window late at night when no one would be around to see the crime being committed.
I look around at the room, empty of everything but the couch I plan to sleep on tonight before leaving town in the morning. If I hadn't wanted to start completely over like I did when I left Kentucky a few months ago, I wouldn't have even needed the tiny U-Haul trailer. I could've easily put all of my worldly belongings in the backseat and trunk of my car. The minimal amount of possessions would be the goal of some people, but, for me, it feels like a failure, like I've lived this entire life and don't have a damn thing to show for it.
It's no wonder I'm not enough for Hemlock or Owen or whatever the fuck his name is.
I growl in irritation. This isn't about me! I don't know why I keep reverting back and letting my mind convince me that this is my problem. I didn't create this situation. This was done to me.
I pull in a deep, irritated breath because I can't keep seeing myself as the damn victim either.
I consider getting some serious fucking therapy wherever I land, because internalizing all of this shit has the ability to make me crazy.
The roar of a motorcycle makes me stop mid-fold of a towel. I swear the damn thing stops right in front of my house before the engine cuts out, but it has to be wishful thinking. I hate that it's hope rather than fear that tries to seep its way inside of me. I don't need him here. I don't want him here, but that doesn't stop disappointment from pooling in my gut when the doorbell doesn't ring.
I continue to fold the towels I'm packing, leaving one out for my shower tonight, before packing the other three into a prepared box. Four towels. I have only four towels. If I let myself analyze that a little too hard, I know I need two. One is for current use while the other is in the wash, meaning I have double what I'll ever need.
It's pitiful.
My entire life is sad and miserable.
The knock on the door startles the shit out of me, making my hand slip on the box I'm taping closed.
The sting of pain tells me I've caused a paper cut. I have no doubt the way my heart begins to race will mean that it'll bleed more than normal.
Lifting my finger to my mouth, I walk toward the door. It won't be him. There's a likelier chance that it's Tommy coming back to get the final word or begging me to take my job back at the bar because Edith is threatening to quit if I don't.
"No," I say the second I pull open the door, but Tommy isn't the one standing there.
Multicolored eyes take me in, dipping and cataloging every inch of my body. I don't know if it's the chill of the air circling around me or it's him that makes my nipples pull tight and strain against the t-shirt I'm wearing, but the drop of his eyes there tells me he doesn't miss the reaction.
I can't help but wonder if the cold chill is good or bad. I know the emotions are battling each other because my mind has been a war zone since I climbed in my car outside of that damned cabin two nights ago.
"You're leaving," he says, and I swear I can hear disappointment or something akin to sadness in his tone.
"I am," I confirm, hating that he can't seem to look me in the eyes, even as he stands on my front porch.
He comes to me, not the other way around, and he can't even be bothered to make eye contact?
The same anger that pulled me back into that basement room with him to slap his face begins to simmer inside of me once again.
"I checked the hitch on the U-Haul to make sure it was done correctly."
"I'm not an idiot," I spit. "I know how to connect a trailer hitch."
It's a lie of course. I'd still be at the rental place if the guy hadn't seen me struggling and come out of the office to help me. He doesn't need to know that though .
"Be careful on the mountain roads," he says with no emotion in his voice or showing in any of his features.
My head tries to convince me that he's here for a reason, that he wants to be invited in or something, but I refuse to feed into any of it.
My heart breaks a little further when he lifts his eyes up to mine for the first time since I opened the door, and I see the soulless emptiness in them.
He isn't here to ask me to stay. He's here to make sure I leave. My chin quivers, my emotions taking over more than I want them to.
I know the tear is going to fall seconds before it does, but there's nothing I can do about the burn behind my eyes and in my nose. If anything maybe I deserve the discomfort. Maybe it's repayment for being such a fool where he's concerned.
Straightening my spine doesn't stop the wetness from dripping down my face, and my pain doubles when he does nothing but watch the path they take before dripping down my chin.
There's no twitch in his lip. That dimple doesn't threaten to get deeper. He's not happy. He's not sad.
He's... nothing. Empty. Emotionless. Uncaring.
All things he's been since the first night I met him. People tell you exactly who they are. You just have to observe and pay attention, but I never wanted to see him for who he really was. I wanted more because I know I deserve more, but projecting those needs onto someone else only leaves me disappointed.
Instead of dipping his head and walking away, he takes a step closer to me, causing my heart to pound in my chest.
"I'm unlovable," he says, his voice but a whisper on the wind, so soft I can almost convince myself that he didn't speak at all. "You'll only get hurt, and I'm not worth it."
I drop my eyes to my hands as I try to make knots out of my fingers because looking at his handsome face is just too painful to bear .
I suck in a ragged breath when I feel the warmth of his hand on my face, urging me to look up at him. Tears continue to fall, and maybe this goodbye is exactly what I need. It's closure for me, yet I still feel angry about needing it in the first place. He wasn't supposed to be something I had to get over. My time with him was supposed to be fun, nothing but orgasms and good feelings. It wasn't supposed to end in heartbreak.
When he leans in, his intent clear, another battle waging my mind, but it's the sane side of me that wins out this time, and later on down the road, I'll be able to look at it as a victory rather than the loss it feels like right now.
"You've got to be kidding me," I growl, pulling my head to the side to free it from his touch.
The man was planning to kiss me, something he never did before no matter how passionate our time together had gotten. It feels like a consolation prize, and the sheer ego of this man to think he can take that from me now.
"Goodbye," I snap, taking a step back and slamming the door.
I lock it, but honestly, I know it wouldn't stop him from getting inside like he has done in the past.
My tears turn to sobs as my body slowly drifts toward the sofa. I'll get over him. I know I will. I just worry that it may not be in this lifetime or the next.