Page 9 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
Ice creeps through my veins, and my muscles stiffen with the uttering of each word, each syllable, in that whiskey-and-blues voice.
What in thefuckis going on here?
“Over the course of the last couple of months, I’ve discovered that while I admire your work ethic, I cannot continue in a relationship where I am second to a man’s job. More and more I find myself alone when that’s not how relationships are supposed to work. I need to feel loved, admired, valued. I need attention and catering to. I deserve it.”
Is this shit really happening?
I blink slow. Blink again.
But no. The stranger with the gorgeous hair and boring pantsuit is still standing on my doorstep breaking up with me via a goddamn Dear John letter from my girlfriend.
I should scrape together the steadily disintegrating scraps of my pride and close the door on this ... this ... God, I don’t even have a name forthis. But I’m frozen, stuck in one of those nightmares where my brain is screaming to move, run, get the fuck out of there, but my body is locked into place, a prisoner of skin and bone, shock and fear.
“I’d like to say it’s not you, that it’s me. But that would be a lie. It is you. You changed; I didn’t. You knew who I was and what I needed when you met me. I feel like there was a bit of a bait and switch. You led me to believe I would be a priority, and I clearly am not. So I’m ending our relationship. It’s better this way. There’s no need to drag this out any longer, as it will only be more painful for both of us. I will always reflect on our time together fondly, but it’s in the past now. I’m looking toward the future, and I hope you will as well. All my best, Val.”
All my best?
I’d been balls deep in her and had planned to propose in another six months andall my best?
That’s it. I’m in the fucking twilight zone.
“Here. This is for you.” The woman (I still don’t know her name. Shouldn’t I at least have a name for the woman who just detonated my world into pieces?) who not only has witnessed my humiliation but read it folds the letter in half and extends it toward me. My arm moves without express permission from my mind, and I take the paper. “I’m truly sorry, Mr.Hart.”
I believe her.
And isn’t that a kick in the nuts?
Glimpsing the softness in her dark eyes, I believe her, and it doesn’t mean a damn thing. For some reason known only to her and Val, my girlfriend—no,ex-girlfriend as of five seconds ago—sent another person to break up with me. If it wasn’t so fucking mind boggling, it would be hilarious.
If it was happening to someone else.
Not me.
Not when I’m seeing my carefully designed plans for my immediate future starting to unravel thread by thread. And if life has taught me anything, it’s that all it takes is that one weak strand to initiate the loosening. One slip of the foot to cause an avalanche.
One neglected pocket of air in a tire. One “I’ll get the tire changed next week.”
One blowout on I-70.
I briefly close my eyes, and my fingers curl around the letter, crushing it. The crinkle of the paper is the only sound in the early-evening silence.
And this is why you don’t trust people. Don’t depend on them, and God forbid, don’t let them close.
They’ll abandon you every. Single. Time.
Me. Myself. And I.
That’s the only holy trinity I believe in.
“Mr.Hart?”
Why is she still standing here? Hell, why amI?
I’ve given her enough of my dignity for consumption today.
Opening my eyes, I step back until I’m on the other side of the doorframe and somehow blindly locate the knob and curl my fingers around it.
“Thank you.”
I’m certain the appropriate reaction in this bizarre situation should be anger or, at the very least, frustration. I mean, this is the kind of shit that happens in quirky rom-coms featuring the latest fresh-faced, girl-next-door star, not in real life.
But I’m not angry. I’m not frustrated.
No, as I deliberately close the door and stare at it, only one emotion creeps through me.
Fear.
For the first time since reaching fifteen and six feet and becoming too tall and big to be “handled,” I’m scared as hell.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
