Except today isn’t that day.
Instead, I’m flooded with a wave of negative emotions. Pain.Worry. Heartache.Each one hits stronger than the last. Usually, I have a good grasp on them, but I’ve always been weak when it comes to my older sister and her challenges.
Struggling with drugs isn’t a challenge, Alana. It’s an addiction.
My hand clutching the mail trembles, making the envelopes shake.
Cal places a hand over mine to halt my task. “Hey.”
I find the idea of staring into his eyes impossible, so I keep my gaze focused on the open mailbox. Any reply gets trapped in my throat.
“Is Camila mine?” The way he asks it—soft and nonjudgmental—nearly breaks me.
I wonder for the smallest second what he would do if she was. Is he the kind of man who would step up and offer to help, or would he walk away like always, proving yet again how much of a disappointment he is?
None of this matters.
I steel my spine and look straight into his eyes. “No. She’s not.”
He releases my hand like his skin might catch on fire if he touches me for a second longer. A dark look passes over his face, completely uncharacteristic. “Who is the guy you slept with?” His question has a sharp edge to it.
I suck in a breath. “Are you seriously accusing me of thisagain?”
“I know how babies are made, and if I’m not the dad, someone sure has to be. So I’m curious who caught your attention not even a month after I left.”
My mind goes blank as I charge forward and stab him in the middle of his chest with my pointer finger. “You’re right. Someone has to be Cami’s father, although I’m not sure who since my sister was high for most of her pregnancy.” The words come out loud and clear despite the ringing in my ears.
His thinly pressed lips part, and the creases in his forehead soften until they disappear. “I’m sorry, Alana. I was stupid to assume you slept with—”
Whatever look is on my face has him scrambling back a few steps.
“Sorry? You thought I slept with someone right after you left and then had their child?” My voice booms.
He holds up his hands in submission. “If you did, it’s not my place to judge.”
“Do you really think that little of what we had together?” I think taking a thousand needles to the heart would feel less painful than this conversation. I’m careful not to let my emotions show on my face, but inside, I allow myself to feel every single stab of hurt. If I cling to the pain, then I won’t run the risk of falling for his usual bullshit—the kind that makes my heart soft and my knees weak from a single smile.
He takes a step forward. “Fuck no.But you had every right to do whatever you wanted after I left.”
“Which includes hooking up with someone only a month later? Are you serious right now?”
His eyes widen. “I told you to move on.”
“The more you say that, the more I wonder if maybe that’s whatyouwanted.”
He takes a big step back. “What? No. I mean—” He releases a frustrated exhale. “It wasn’t like that for me.”
“Then whatwasit like?” My heart pounds against my chest.
His brows scrunch with confusion. “What waswhatlike?”
My voice drops, barely stronger than a whisper. “Moving on from me.” The regret hits me instantly, making me wish I never opened my mouth and asked my question in the first place.
He avoids looking at me as he focuses on something over my shoulder. “I can’t answer that.”
My heart stutters in my chest. “Why not?”
He did move on, right?