For an achingly horrible moment, all I can do is stare at him before I lick my dry as fuck lips and whisper, “What are you sorry for?”
“Marie. She’s—We’re . . . together,” he says quietly, raising his dark eyes to mine.
Jesus fucking Christ. It’s been five months! Nice to know he can move on so quickly. My pulse surges, fluttering wildly in my veins as my heart, my aching fucking heart, refuses to compute his words, but my cynical brain releases an I-fucking-told-you-so sigh.
It’s as though Cole completely dropped me the minute I wasn’t around like I didn’t fucking matter. Was I the go-to because there was no other option? I mean, we had our struggles, but I thought we were working toward something solid and real.
Now what? He can’t possibly be saying that he moved on to another woman five months after we lost each other. Right?
At a loss for words, because venom and rage sit on the tip of my tongue, I stare at him blankly. He drops into silence when I don’t respond, an indefinable expression crossing his face.
And then he drops the bomb that changes everything, muttering, “Marie doesn’t have any history with us, with me. We can be together without any memories.”
Blink, blink, blink. I don’t . . . I can’t even . . .
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I exclaim.
He raises his brows at my response but says nothing, his mouth set in a firm line.
Huffing out a breath, I say, “I’ve looked past your fucking insults about me being a slut. I walked away when just minutes after you told me you wanted to be with me, you broke it off for your pregnant ex-girlfriend. Minutes! This is after you ruined any chances of me having a relationship with Jase because you told him I’m a homewrecking whore, but even after all of that . . . I forgave you! And then there I was patiently waiting for you to find me until I thought you were fucking dead, and I grieved for months. Months! Every fucking day until I saw you earlier.”
My voice breaks, and I turn away, taking a deep breath before looking him in the eyes. “And now you’ve found someone else because it’s easier? Did you even bother to look for me? Fuck!”
Cole’s face scrunches, but I don’t give him the chance to speak because what does it matter now?
“Fuck you, Cole. Get out,” I say, relieved when it comes out ultra-calm because what I want to do is scream and rail.
“Lo,” he starts to say.
“Get out!” I scream. “Get the fuck out.”
So much for being calm.
Cole steps forward and grabs my shoulders, shaking them as he says, “Quiet down, stop yelling.”
But I open my mouth to respond, and he drops his arms, turning toward the door and saying quickly, “I’m leaving, I’m leaving.”
Once he’s gone, I stare at the door, my chest heaving before I drop to my knees and cry, the deep, harsh sobs pushing from my throat.
This is more final than any other conversation with Cole I’ve had because I can’t compete with someone who doesn’t remind him of his dead baby mama drama. I’ve finally, truly lost, and some part of me isn’t even surprised. This, this is what I am always waiting for, the other shoe to drop. Always be prepared, not just for life’s inconveniences—you know, a flat tire, a broken nail, zombies—but also for your beating heart to be pulled from your chest and crushed between someone’s hands.
I’ve been thrown away for a better model, and I don’t know how to make it okay.
With a wretched laugh, I pull myself up and walk to the bedroom before dropping on the bed where I cry until I can’t fucking feel anymore and then fall into a restless sleep.
???
As part of Dove’s mini-tour yesterday, we were informed of the daily required meeting, which is where I find myself the following morning. With a shiver, I enter the Baptist church and mentally sigh. I’m so fucking tired right now that I can barely see straight. A meeting is the last thing I want to participate in, right now.
Finding an out-of-the-way spot, I drop wearily into the pew and slide down a bit when I see Cole come in with his new woman. Clenching my hand into a fist, I look away, but it’s too late because the image of his hand at her lower back is emblazoned on my brain.
I’m so confused by our conversation last night and by how quickly he moved on. I spent the whole evening obsessing over every interaction and touch because although we were taking it slow, I was convinced that we were solid. Maybe he cared about me, but not enough.
Now I’m fighting the self-destructive thoughts I know are lurking and hoping to break free. The knowledge that I can easily be left behind is always at the forefront of my brain, and I can’t help but allow this to confirm all those nasty feelings.
Did he think I was dead? Did he just not care? Maybe I was good enough until something better came along—the story of my life. Men are scum-sucking pigs. Sigh.
Enzo sits beside me, unusually stiff, and I eye him for a moment, noticing that he too has showered and changed into clean clothes. His beautiful face is now clean-shaven and highlights his strong jaw and straight nose.