Twenty-Four #3
‘I do,’ I insist, and in the back of my mind, underneath the pure rage rendering me near-blind, it registers just how much I mean that.
‘You don’t. You’re only doing this, him, to get back at me, I know you are.’
‘Go away, Ben.’
‘You want to hear me say I’m jealous? Fine. I’m jealous. I hate that you’re with him.’
‘I—’
‘Dani.’ Clammy hands rise to cup my face. ‘I love you. Please, baby. Give me another chance.’
Just for a second, I entertain the idea. I try to imagine giving him another chance. Forgiving him. Loving him.
The concept completely eludes me; it’s unfathomable, it’s ridiculous. I just spent the last few months being treated infinitely better by a man who isn’t actually even my boyfriend. Why would I ever go back to someone who treated me like a dirty inconvenience?
‘Ben,’ I sigh, and he actually looks hopeful. His eyes light up, and I actually almost feel bad for him. Except I don’t. I don’t feel bad at all when I wrap my fingers around his wrists and yank him away, and his entire face falls. ‘I would literally rather die.’
A puff of shocked air parts his lips. ‘I’m being serious, Dan.’
‘So am I.’ I step back into my apartment, gripping the door so tightly, the edge cuts into my palm.
‘There is nothing you could ever say to me that would make me want you back. Nothing. I don’t want you.
What you did . . . You betrayed me. You embarrassed me.
But you didn’t break my heart. And I deserve heart-breaking, earth-shattering love.
Not some asshole who did nothing but waste my time.
Not someone who only knows how to love if it hurts too. ’
I slam the door in his face.
Palms braced on either side of the frame, I rest my forehead against the wood and wait for the yelling to begin. The brutal, insistent knocking. The profanity. The embarrassment as he rips me to shreds for all the block to hear.
I wait for regret. For a part of me, any part of me, to lament the finality of that rejection. Because something about this feels final. Feels different to the other times he harangued me. Feels like the tipping point, the final straw, the inevitable conclusion to a lengthy chapter.
Maybe because, for once, Ben doesn’t fight.
He doesn’t yell. Through the flimsy barrier separating us, I hear him sigh.
Twice. I flinch when knuckles connect with the concrete right beside the door, I wait some more for that aggression to fester, to swing my way, but it just .
. . doesn’t. He sighs again, I hear the scuff of shoe soles against concrete, and then he’s gone.
And maybe I’m naive or stupid or just really fucking desperate, but it actually feels like he’s gone.
Backing away from the door, I drag my hands through my hair. Fingers laced together at the base of my neck, I marvel at the sudden absence of weight. Like I’ve actually physically shucked him off, like he’s really, truly gone.
I drag a hand down my face, and it’s only as it skates over my mouth that I realize just how hard I’m smiling.
Laughing into my palm, I shake my head and rush into the kitchen.
As I rummage through my cabinets, I curse myself for not anticipating such a celebratory moment and buying champagne or prosecco or, shit, I’d settle for some freaking sparkling apple cider.
I grab my phone and pull up my conversation with Heath so I can tell him to pick some up only to pause midway through the sentence. Frowning, I check the time he sent his last message. He should be here by now. Like, by a long shot. Deleting my request, I type out a simple Everything okay? Instead.
Ten minutes pass without an answer, and I start to fidget. A half-hour, and the concern hits. An hour, and my mind has jumped to some very lofty conclusions and sent me pacing around my apartment – a minute after, I hit the call icon next to his number.
It rings so many times, I barely have any thumbnail by the time the call finally connects. ‘Hey—’
‘What?’
Halfway through my thousandth loop of my living room, I freeze. His voice . . . I frown. He doesn’t sound right. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Something slams, like metal on metal. Jingles, like keys. Squeaks, like a tight grip on plastic. ‘Do you want something?’
‘Aren’t you—’ I swallow around a thick lump of dread. ‘Don’t we have plans?’
A pause. A deep breath. ‘Oh. Right. I forgot.’
A pause of my own. A matching deep breath too. ‘You forgot?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘So you . . . you’re not coming over?’
‘Can’t,’ he claims, curtly. ‘I’m busy.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I, uh, got that paper due this week.’
‘Oh.’ A tangled knot coils in my stomach, pulling tight like it hears the blatant lie as clearly as I do. ‘I could—’
‘Listen, Dani, I gotta go.’
‘Right. Maybe tomorrow—’
‘Yeah, I’ll call you.’
With that empty promise, the line goes dead.
I stare at my phone screen until it goes dark, until my own blank expression is reflected in it. A burning sensation tickles my nose, the back of my throat too, behind my eyes. I swipe at them with the back of my hand and my knuckles come away shiny, wet, stained with cutting disappointment.
Well. Okay then.