I lied to Bobby.
I don’t need space. I need to get out of here.
After he leaves, I pack my things. I don’t have anywhere to put my furniture and the stuff that’s in storage in the basement of the building, but I can worry about that later.
I have a new job now with a guaranteed salary. I can buy myself new things when I get my own place.
Right now, I just need to get out of this apartment. As far away from all the things that remind me of Bobby as I can.
I’m not angry. I mean I am, but I have no right to be. Bobby was up front with me from the start about the parameters of our relationship. I’m the fool who had to want more.
The fool who fell in love.
I could stay. Enjoy his luxury apartment and the great sex. But every day I stayed would chip away more and more at my dignity. Eat holes through my heart.
No, it’s better to just cut my losses now before I get even more attached.
It takes me until midnight, but I get everything I own neatly packed up and ready to go, and then I call a taxi to take me first to Swank to get the key and then to Gina’s place.
When I get there, it takes me ninety minutes to move my stuff inside, shower, and curl up on the couch.
I want to cry, but I don’t even have the energy.
I’m too drained to even absorb how much grief I carry in my body. In my soul.
I’m too exhausted to even know how much burning this bridge will ultimately cost me.
ChapterNineteen
Bobby
I spend a restless night, dreaming of being interrogated by the Feds, who somehow have Lexi standing behind them, her arms folded as if they’re working for her.
Last night, I drove home, trying to ignore the sick feeling in my stomach, the cold circling through my veins. I picked up the phone a dozen times to call Lexi then hit “end” before it rang. What would I say that I hadn’t already said? I don’t know how to change her perception of what had happened.
When I wake in the morning, I check my phone to see if she’s called. She hasn’t, but of course, I have three messages from the fucking mayor about the investigation on his phone. I cannot even begin to deal with his petulance at this moment.
I skip calling her, opting to drive over as soon as I shower, a pressing sense of urgency moving me forward.
As soon as I get there, I know: she’s gone.
Fuck.
I should never have walked out. I should have stayed and figured out the right thing to say to make her stay.
The phone I gave her lays on the table, along with the keys to the apartment. I jog into the bedroom. Everything’s gone. No clothes, no boxes. Nothing in the bathroom.
Fanculo.
I punch the wall, the plaster caving under my knuckles.
I try her number on my phone, but, of course, she doesn’t answer.
I take the elevator to the basement to check the storage area. Her furniture’s still packed in the storage area where my guys moved it. At least I have this small connection to her. She’ll have to contact me to get her things. The glimmer of satisfaction doesn’t even come close to burning away the ice cold that’s filtered through my body. I need to track her down long before she comes for her furniture. I need to find her and fix this.
The trouble is, I have a terrible feeling it’s already too late.
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