His hand flexes at his side. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”
I force a laugh, mostly so I won’t start crying. My throat feels like it’s closing up. “I’m really not. But anyway, you should go.” I hate that my voice trembles—if ever there was a time I wanted to project indifference, it’s now. “You have things to take care of . . . messes to clean up. That’s where you should be. Not here.” Please, please leave before I lose it completely.
I’m giving him an out, granting him permission to do what I know he wants to—leave me behind so he can deal with the fallout on his own, assess the damage to his business without my emotional deadweight dragging him down. And as much as I wish he wanted to stay with me and weather this storm as a team, I don’t want him doing so out of guilt. Even if all else is lost—my career, my reputation, this relationship—I still have my pride.
But he’s not exactly rushing out the door. In fact, he looks so conflicted that I almost feel sorry for him. His haste to get dressed has left him looking a disheveled mess, like an alcoholic after an all-night bender: hair rumpled, shoes untied, shirt buttoned but untucked, tie spilling out from the pants pocket where he’s haphazardly shoved it. He looks as wrecked as I feel. And yet, despite how angry I am at him and how badly he’s let me down, he’s still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. I’m still in love with him, and that knowledge is a crushing blow.
He’s watching me closely, as though gauging my sincerity (or perhaps just guarding against a rogue right hook). Whatever he sees on my face prompts him to take a step toward me, but I hold up a hand to stop him.
“Please don’t.” If you touch me, I’ll lose my nerve.
I can’t identify the emotion behind his eyes—uncertainty? regret?—but I force myself to hold his gaze so he knows that I’m serious, that I’m not changing my mind. I want you to leave—and it’s this lie, out of all the others I’ve told, that finally breaks me.
I spin around, turning my back to him and pressing my knuckles into the corners of my eyes in a desperate attempt to stave off the tears. Do not let him see you cry. Wait until he’s gone to fall apart. And I do exactly that, waiting until I hear the door open and swing shut behind me before I let out a sob and crumple onto the bed.
I lay there for a while, just letting myself cry and wallow in my hurt feelings. I can hardly wrap my head around how quickly this situation soured, how swiftly things went from the highest high to the lowest low. I can hear my phone going berserk in the bathroom, which only intensifies my distress. The thought of dealing with the prying questions and inevitable gossip on top of this heartbreak is almost too much to bear. I want to crawl under these covers, pull the sheets over my head and never come out. I want to hide from the world, disappear from my own life, and transplant into someone else’s like I’m in witness protection. I feel trapped; hunted. And because I’m part of this industry, I know exactly how this will play out: The press will circle me like vultures until they go in for the kill, picking my life apart piece by piece until there’s nothing left worth saving. Until I’m as dead inside as I am out.
I breathe a sigh of relief when the buzzing finally stops, but it’s short-lived; it immediately starts up again. And as much as I want to shut the world out and pretend this isn’t happening, I need to face the music sometime (or at least call an Uber so I can escape this godforsaken hotel room). I heave myself off the bed and stumble over to the bathroom, and when I see who’s calling—Christine—I’m suddenly desperate to hear her voice.
“Hey,” I shudder out, trying to get my emotions under control.
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” she yells, and I have to hold the phone away from my head so as to not shatter my eardrum. “I’ve spent half the night trying to find you!”
“I was with Jack.” Just saying his name aloud triggers a fresh round of tears and I have to take a couple of deep breaths before continuing. “I had my phone off. I know you’re probably wondering what’s going on, but I don’t think I can talk about it without bawling.”
There’s a beat of silence. “So you talked to Mom and Dad, then? They said they couldn’t reach you.”
“Mom and Dad? No,” I say, confused, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. “I haven’t talked to anyone. Why?”
There’s another pause. “Is Jack there with you now?”
“No. Christine, tell me what’s going on.”
She exhales. “Sorry, I’m just confused. You sound upset, so I assumed you heard about Gran.”
My heart stops. “What about Gran?” Please God, no.
“She wasn’t answering her phone, so Dad went over there and she was acting funny. Confused and slurring her words, couldn’t get out of bed. They think she had a stroke.”
I barely make it to the toilet before I retch.
Chapter 18
The next few weeks are a top-to-bottom life upheaval—for both Gran and me.
Upon checking her into the hospital, doctors determined that Gran had, in fact, suffered a mild stroke, and while the left side of her body was not quite paralyzed, she was experiencing substantial weakness that would permanently affect her mobility unless she underwent aggressive physical therapy. Surprising absolutely no one, Gran flat-out refused to convalesce anywhere but her own home, which meant she needed round-the-clock, live-in care (which—you guessed it—she also rejected, insisting that she “didn’t want strangers in her house”?). As an alternative, doctors suggested a family member temporarily move in to oversee Gran’s rehab needs—a job I quickly volunteered for.
It was an obvious solution. With both of my siblings busy raising families of their own and the physical demands of her care a lot for my sixty-something parents to take on, this was one circumstance where my youth and perpetual singledom could actually come in handy. I may not be adding any branches to the family tree, but this was a way in which I could positively contribute. Besides, I found myself with an abundance of free time ever since giving my notice at Siren. What better way to spend it than with Gran?