Chapter 3 #2
Plus, he already proposed we could go to Onyx, knowing it was my favorite club, and even suggested he'd get us tickets.
I told myself this was it, that after months of restraint and waiting for him to make the move, this was going to be our debut.
I even built a whole movie out of it: the countdown, our first official photo, his mouth on mine while strangers screamed into a new year.
And with that in mind I bought the slinkiest, red leather dress and six-inch heels so he wouldn't have to hunch when he finally claimed me. It was destined to be perfect.
Only, it wasn't.
In those three days, his texts thinned.
I was already fluent in that, since he was always busy and appeared in the most random bursts, only to vanish again.
As much as it bothered me, I'd gotten very good at pretending that it didn't.
But on the morning of the thirty-first, he sent me a video—his face folded with sleep, voice sounding gravelly.
"Hi, Emma. Had to fly to New York. Family emergency. I'll call you tomorrow and explain everything. It's chaos now. Happy New Year."
That was it. No proper explanation. No apology. Typical.
Being in the world's shittiest position, not exactly able to hold family against him, I just gave up the fight, curled back into bed, told myself New Year's Eve was overrated anyway and numbed out with TV, trying not to overthink all the ways it could've gone differently.
Oh, and I ignored his ass.
Then, an hour later, he texted.
Ben: Where are you going tonight? With who? Send me a photo of you. I miss you. And have fun!
I didn't reply. Not until I saw the photo he posted at midnight.
He was with some girl I'd never seen. Gorgeous, with hair so black it shone blue—the kind I always wanted, but that wasn't the worst part.
She was folded into him, laughing against his shoulder, like she belonged there, and his hand—his goddamn hand—was on her waist, gripping her the way you touch only someone who's been in your bed.
I hated her instantly. And him, so much more.
Everything clicked—the pieces I'd ignored all year because I was a fool.
How he would get close and then recoil like touching me burned, the canceled plans, the ones he forgot altogether, the subtle flirting with chicks right in front of me while I told myself it's nothing, that he wasn't taking them home.
And I swallowed every little rejection. Because that's what you do when you love someone who doesn't love you back.
You hope for a damn miracle that never comes.
I cried into my pillow until my throat was raw, blew my nose on his favorite Fight Club T-shirt as my petty revenge, and eventually sent him the only text he deserved.
Me: We... whatever we never were... are over
The calls started instantly, his name lighting up my screen on repeat.
I muted them, one after the other.
Then the messages came with apologies like compulsions, sorry sorry sorry.
But sorry gets exhausting when you hear it on loop, so I told my heart to change the locks.
And still, I must have left the door a little cracked because when he knocked hard enough, I broke, weak for him.
Ben: Emma, I'm sorry. Dad's sick. He didn't want to tell me but Mara texted me. I had to come
Ben: Emma? Pick up please. I'm back in four days. I'll make it up. Promise
Me: I guess you forgot, while you were busy making your plans, I'm going to Seattle for my book signing. Won't be back for two weeks. And I don't want to ever see you again
That's when hell broke loose.
Ben: What the fuck do you mean you don't want to see me? You serious?
My phone went hot in my hand, burning from his fury I knew so well anytime he was hurt. That sharp, defensive kind that made you feel like you were the one who'd thrown the first punch.
Was I serious about not wanting to see him? No. I ran twenty potential scenarios in my head and all of them forced him in.
Still, when you cross that threshold and things start falling apart with pride becoming the only thing keeping you upright, you double down. Say the things you've been choking on for months.
Me: I can't keep doing this. You disappear, then think you can smile your way back
Me: And you were right, you're not my friend. Friends don't leave me crying on New Year's Eve while they're posting photos with someone else
He tried for another call, but I muted it, too busy sniffling.
Ben: Damn it, Emma. Pick up the damn phone
Another call.
Another click.
Me: No, go back to your company
Ben: She's a family friend who came over. Dad's friends with her dad. I'm sorry. It wasn't meant to hurt you. You're blowing this out of proportion, it's nothing
Me: It's always nothing. Always not meant to hurt me. Shame on you for putting the blame on me
Ben: Emma. Stop. I said I'm sorry
Me: This is why I never let myself fall for you because I always knew I'd be your collateral damage
There was a pause—one of those long, awful ones where the three dots keep showing up and disappearing. Five whole minutes of watching him type, delete, type again.
Stupidly, I thought the next message was going to fix everything, but it didn't.
Ben: So you're the victim? You want the truth? You're unstable. Never know what you want. And when shit gets real you either bolt or become neurotic
Ben: Which is the reason why I didn't want to make any move
I just stared at the screen, rereading it, my heart pumping so violently I thought I was going to drop dead.
I was neurotic?!
Fine. I'd show him neurotic.
Me: Don't twist this you asshole. You're not a real man! You're an inconsistent flake and I can't even list the number of times you let me down
Me: Delete my number. I mean it. Don't text. Don't call.
Ben: There it is. The mature Emma
Me: I don't care. Don't even look at me if we pass on the street
Me: Starting today, I'll pretend I've never met you
Ben: Wow... just... fucking wow
Me: I AM DONE WITH YOU, BEN
Me: DONE
Ben: You won't see me on the streets. I'm staying in New York
Ben: You ruined my night, my year, my fucking life. Exactly like I expected
Ben: I hope one day I can forgive you
And that was it. The last time I ever heard from him.
No closure.
Just silence, loud enough to last three years.