Page 53 of Score
“I really don’t want to have to pick you up and dump you in the hall like last night’s trash, Vee, but I will,” I say through clenched teeth, unsure how long I can hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overflow. “For the last time, get out of my apartment and I don’t want to see your cheating face again.”
I hold my breath and do something I haven’t done in a long time.
I pray.
I pray she leaves before she figures out how close I am to making a fool of myself. That another minute with her this close, and I might lay my pride aside, cave and take anything she’s willing to give. Even tasting herfrom another woman’s lips, another man’s, if that’s the only way I could have her. That I would share her, even believing she’s been only mine and I’ve been only hers from the beginning of fucking time. That I would settle for parts of her, even wanting the whole because it’s a better misery than having none of her at all.
I’m on the edge of confessing everything, of forfeiting my dignity, but my stony expression and unyielding silence must finally convince her to go. She bends to retrieve her bag from the floor and walks to the door. I follow, and even in these final moments, I’m drawn to the satin-skinned stretch of her back, the enticing curve of her ass, the way her hair curls sweetly at her nape. I recall the whispered dreams, hopes, and ambitions we shared like secrets in the dark, wrapped in each other’s arms. And buried beneath the stench of the bar and of him, I still smellher. The real her.
It unfurls in my chest, tucked between the muscle of my heart and the curve of my rib—the absolute certainty that I will never feel this again. Not quite this way for anyone else. I’m young with a bright future ahead of me, but it feels like losing Verity will haunt and devastate me for the rest of my life. My mind and my heart know she cheated and she’s not for me, but my soul… it will take a long time to convince my soul it was wrong about Verity Hill.
“I really am sorry, Monk,” she says, looking over her shoulder and finding my eyes. Her face is ravaged. Eyes puffy, lips swollen from the way she bites them when she’s anxious, blood vessels broken around her nose from the pressure of her sobs.
“Don’t be sorry,” I tell her. “Just get the hell out of my life and stay out.”
And with one last look that tells me, somehow, even though this was her doing, that she’s as devastated as I am—the girl I love in a way I don’t want to love anyone ever again, is gone.
SIXTEEN
Verity
For days I’ve been floating on air. Propelled by some powerful force that kept me euphoric and in constant motion. A dervish. A spinning top, the world a blur around me.
Outside Monk’s apartment door, I’m finally still.
What I’ve lost comes into sharp focus and I wait for the pain to hit.
I know this breakup is a deep wound, bleeding all over my feet, but I can’tfeelit. It’s like someone injected novocaine into my heart, and instead of the agony, there’s a blessed numbness that makes this unnatural joy possible. I’m the clown with the smile painted on her face. I couldn’t stop grinning if I wanted to. Even knowing I just lost the man I love, the best thing that has ever happened to me, there is somehow a pep in my step. That buzz beneath my skin and in my ears grows more prominent, the noise of an army of bees.
I don’t know how long I stand there, listening for an indication that Monk has changed his mind. That any minute the door will be flung open because, realizing his mistake, he’s coming after me. And he’d find me right here waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
But he never comes. The door doesn’t open, and slowly I accept that it won’t.
My heart is heavy, but my feet still have wings. If the depression I experienced in California was a weighted blanket I could never crawl from under, in contrast this feels like I’ve swallowed helium and keep rising, unable to find anything solid beneath my feet. My heart is racing, the pulseat my neck and wrists like mallets beating the head of a drum. The blood in my veins is spiked with accelerant. I can’t slow down. My steps, at first dogged, dragging, quicken until I’m running. The heels hinder me, so I kick them off, heedless of how the rough cobblestones along the arboretum’s path tear at the soles of my feet. The halter at my neck loosens as I pick up speed and it falls to my waist.
The cool night air feels good on my naked breasts. I’m so damn hot. I run faster, willing the wind to cool me, but perspiration dots my forehead and rivulets of sweat run down my naked spine.
“So hot,” I mumble, fiddling with the zipper of my dress, not stopping, but stumbling as I kick out of it. I leave it in the grass and regain my footing, racing past the darkened cafeteria and the desolate student center. The glow of a faint light from the fine arts building brings me to a halt. I stand at the steps, panting, back bowed, hands on my knees, and wearing only my thong. I suddenly know how to cool the sweltering heat of my body, the lava scalding my brain.
If I put out the fire, I’ll stop burning.
It makes such perfect sense, I can’t believe I didn’t understand before.
That was why I’ve been drawn to this sculpture over and over and over. It’s the source, the heart of my heat. If I can’t extinguish that flame, I’ll combust. I find a rock in the grass and trip up the steps. Unhesitatingly, I hit the glass door with the rock until it shatters. Thrusting my arm through the jagged glass, I reach in and turn the knob. Glass scrapes along the skin of my forearm, leaving thin trails of blood behind, but I barely feel it. I’m so close nothing could stop me now.
Ignoring the red flashing light in the ceiling and the squawk of the alarm, I run into the exhibit hall. A strip of LED lights strung overhead illuminate the copper piece, igniting its flame. I press my palms to the protective glass encasing the prized art. It cools my palms, and I instantly know this is right. This is the only way to smother the flame burning under my skin, seething in my belly, and roaring in my chest. I pound on the panes, but they’re too thick. They don’t budge. Desperate, I scan the sparse exhibit hall for anything I can use to crack the glass. A small marble bustsits on a display table a few feet away. I grab it and throw it with all my strength.
The case shatters, and the glass splinters into a million shards on the floor. Sobbing in relief, I move close. It doesn’t matter that I’m stepping on glass with my bare feet. I can’t feel anything but the heat. The overwhelming heat that licks from my toes all the way to the top of my head. I’m so hot my eyes must be bleeding flames and my hair is on fire.
“Freeze!”
The shout briefly draws my attention away fromFlame. Two campus police officers stand at the door, guns drawn. I’m unfazed and take another step across the sea of glass to reach the sculpture.
“Ma’am,” one of the officers says. “On your knees, hands behind your head.”
