Page 79 of False Promises

“Carter, could you please answer the door? Get some money or your card. I haven’t paid for the delivery beforehand.”

Why wasn’t this surprising me? Savannah almost never paid for anything. If she had wanted a sugar daddy, she should’ve told me. I would have refused the role on the spot. No amount of companionship or dirty sex could ever convince me to play the part.

I massaged the skin of my nape to relieve some tension, cursed under my breath, and went to the door, my wallet in hand.

Savannah’s fake laughter resonated through the entire apartment.

And it turned the blood in my veins into icicles.

What was her endgame here? Had she been wearing a mask all this time as I had told Riley, or was she having a mental breakdown?

When I returned to the kitchen with the impossible amount of Thai food she’d ordered—seriously, we could feed a baseball team with this—my girlfriend was all over the producer. And the guy didn’t seem to care I was here, his hands planted on her waist, his lips a hair’s breadth from hers, grinning at something she said.

At the table, Savannah and her guest sat next to each other, angling their bodies so their faces were inches apart the entire time.

“I really like what you did with the place, Sav,” Jean-Jacques said.

Sav? What the actual fuck.

She flipped her hair over her shoulders. “I worked on a limited budget, but sure, it looks okay-ish.”

Jean-Jacques squeezed her forearm. “No, Sav, it looks fabulous. Just like you. Your taste is immaculate.”

He kissed her knuckles, and she fawned.

Bile rose at the back of my throat.

Hell no.

“Oh, you’re so sweet. Imagine what I could have done with a decent budget.” She shook her head as if our place looked like a dump, and she had to suffer through it.

I coughed on a forkful of rice. Stones filled my stomach, making it impossible for me to swallow another bite. I washed the food down with a sip of water. Rage coursed through me at high speed. Even the food had lost all its appeal. Refusing to make a scene, I pushed my plate away, stood, and locked myself in the office slash music room. The only room that fit me in this presumptuous apartment.

My eyes landed on pictures Jack drew when he was here. Our family. Stick figures of Dahlia, Nick, me, and him, all holding hands, a mountain and sunset in the background.

Sadness clung to all my cells. With my fingers, I erased the moisture building in the corners of my eyes.

With a long exhale, I focused on my music.

Strumming my guitar, I added a melody to the lyrics that had been swirling nonstop in my head for the last week. Music always helped to calm the emotional surges inside me.

I wished it could do the same with the panic attacks. The ones that had started after my brother’s death, and I couldn’t seem to keep them away no matter how hard I tried or whatever techniques the specialists and doctors recommended I use these days. Lately, they had come back with a vengeance.

I put my pen down and sang the chorus.

You don’t know me

Don’t pretend to understand where I’m coming from

You don’t know me

Don’t blame me for all the bad choices you’ve made

Lately. Because you seem to forget who you are

Or where you’ve come from, oh yeah

Do you want me to tell you the story