61. Valentine
I fall face first onto my bed. All I can think is that August was right, that I’m one in a long line of idiots who fell for Bentley Cavendish’s charm. That here I am stupidly spouting his praises and asking August to give him a chance, and meanwhile he’s hanging out with his ex the second I get reflective-silence-not-grounded and can’t see him. But my chain of thought gets cut short by my phone buzzing. I pull my face out of my comforter, and there on my screen is Bentley video-calling me.
“Yes?” I say after pressing accept, knowing I should probably wait, that I’m too revved up to think clearly, but also not possessing that type of herculean restraint.
He, too, sits on his bed. “Can I explain?”
“Depends.” Anger tightens my chest. We messaged each other five thousand times this past week. I know which day he did his freaking laundry and that he lost his favorite sock, but somehow he forgot to tell me that he hung out with his ex-girlfriend? “Did you hook up with Cassie?”
“No,” he says, but it’s not an easy word. Bentley hesitates. And that hesitation speaks volumes.
Whatever slim hope I had of this being reparable disappears. Something happened; I can feel it in my bones. And honestly, I don’t think I want to know what it was, unable to handle one more disappointment. August was right, I know better than to get involved with someone like Bentley. And what pisses me off the most is that Bentley totally had me going on the idea that we had something special, that he was just waiting for me to have a real relationship. Even thinking it makes me embarrassed.
And so I do something I never do. I hang up. And when he calls back two more times, I block him. Then I cry into my pillow, a good long cry that feels like it might never stop.