“Well, you are an ass,” I hear myself say as I stand and march toward his front door, fumbling at the doorknob. Good response, Parker. Super mature.
But my verbal vomit continues. “Don’t expect me to just be sitting around waiting,” I choke out.
Great. The soap opera script in my head is still unreeling.
“I won’t,” he says, a little desperately as he comes after me. “I want you to be happy, I just don’t think I’m the guy to—”
I slam the door on his sentence and it feels fantastic.
I wobble on my high heels toward the elevator, stabbing at the down button frantically. I keep an ear open in case Lance comes chasing after me, telling me how wrong he was, that he doesn’t want to end it after all.
But the elevator door opens, and Lance’s door stays shut.
I hiccup out a sob and step inside.
I’m pretty sure that this is no break.
This is over.
I can’t run through the lobby, partially because of the damn shoes, partially because Erik is giving me a worried, confused look.
“Ms. Blanton?”
I wave and give him a big smile as I sail past. A smile that I’m sure looks entirely clownish, given that I’m dying inside.
Erik smiles sympathetically in response. I’m sure the guy’s done enough people watching to know when a girl is fleeing after a fight with her boyfriend.
Ex-boyfriend.
Oh God.
I’ve just been dumped.
Solidly dumped, too. It hadn’t been a big blowup fight; it had
just been a quiet I don’t love you anymore, and that’s worse. So much worse than if I’d committed some transgression that had gotten me kicked to the curb.
I make it back to my car, and by now, the state of the ozone layer is the last thing on my mind. I drop my head to the wheel and debate my next move.
I should put my shoulders back. Sniffle back the snot, and drive home.
I lift my head. I should—
I suck in a hiccupping breath, but no tears come. It’s as though I want to cry, but can’t, because my body’s too confused about how just an hour ago I was putting on Victoria’s Secret’s finest, and now I’m single and alone in a car on a Saturday night.
I’m twenty-four and dressed up, and have nowhere to go.
I see a grungy-looking dude carrying a skateboard under his arm checking me out as he passes my car and I squeeze my eyes shut, only to have them fly open again when my cellphone buzzes.
It’s from Lance.
I’m sorry.
That’s it. No I take it back. No I didn’t mean it.
Screw him.
I delete the text with a hiss and lift my hands to the steering wheel only to realize that they’re shaking wildly.