He obliges, but only for a second. “I’m sorry to just show up like this.” He grunts. “But you’re the only person I can trust.”
Trust? Excuse me?
My breathing speeds up, and my nostrils flare. I have to bite down on my lip to keep from losing it. Tears threaten to escape as I unwillingly replay the last time we saw each other. The day when loving him proved to be the biggest mistake of my life. I don’t want to think about any of it, because if I do, I’m not sure I’ll be able to pull it back together, not with him here in my living room. Choosing to avoid his statement, I move on to close up the front side of his wound. I tie off the final stitch, snipping it, and then rub a topical antibiotic to help prevent infection. I roll my used supplies into a bunch and drop them into a sterile disposable bag before wrapping his shoulder with a surgical dressing to protect the injury.
“Thank you,” he says when I remove my gloves.
I straighten my shoulders to keep my composure. I don’t want his thanks, I just want to be rid of him. Dylan watches me make my way to the door, a look of confusion pasted to his face as I open it. He sits there, silently pleading for my attention. When I don’t give it to him, he stands, and I feel my tension leaving at the thought of being free of him. He tries to speak, but I hold out my hand and shake my head, stopping him before the words can leave his lips. He can save his lies and whatever false promises he plans to muster.
He steps forward, having to pause to keep himself from stumbling over. I watch his stance waver from left to right, and suddenly he drops, passing out in the middle of my living room floor.
“Damn it,” I curse while letting the door shut behind me.
I kneel and press two fingers against his neck to check his pulse. Still there. He’s lost a lot of blood, and the paleness of his skin shows his exhaustion. He’s weak, but he’s alive. Running my hands down the front of my yoga pants, I stand, leaving him right where he lays. I scoff, followed by a laugh. What is even happening right now? If someone would have told me today would have ended like this, I wouldn’t have believed them. Then I remember Eric and am grateful he canceled on me tonight. I can’t even fathom how to explain what my ex-boyfriend is doing on my floor and why he’s here and not in a hospital. Or better yet, why I haven’t called the police?
I should.
I should call the police, but his words ring back to me. You’re the only person I can trust. Trust me with what? Instead of racking my brain, I remember my half-eaten meal and decide to satisfy this sudden wave of hunger. This always happens to me. The rush of saving a life is exhilarating, and for most, their adrenaline wires them, increasing their energy. But for me, it converts into an increased appetite. I can’t explain it and stopped trying to figure it out a long time ago. I just know that at the end of a busy, trauma-filled day, I eat. It settles me in a way.
I walk to the microwave and turn it on, then press my tailbone into the countertop and wait. I try to keep from looking in his direction but I can’t. My gaze lands on his face, and I frown. The microwave dings, and I grab a fork from the drying dish before removing my plate and sitting down to enjoy my steak, all the while never breaking the glare I’ve set on him.
Popping a piece of meat into my mouth, I go over what I’ll say when he wakes up. I hadn’t wanted to talk or listen to a word he said before, but this is probably the one and only chance I’ll get to give him a piece of my mind. I want to yell, to scream, and make him feel how badly he hurt me, used me, and just threw me away once I no longer served a purpose for him. I watch his chest rise and fall, unable to keep from reminiscing over the days I’d lie still, listening to the drum of his heart. My own beats faster, and my breathing picks up. Moisture lines the corners of my eyes, and I realize I hate him. I no longer care why he’s here or why he feels he can trust me. I want him gone—forever. I wipe away the tears, stopping them from falling. He doesn’t get to do this to me anymore. He doesn’t get to make me cry or feel anything but disgust for him. And when he wakes, I don’t care if he’s barely functional.
Dylan sits up in a jolt, glancing around frantically. “What happened?” He turns to look at me from across the room.
I fix my lips to curse him out and then put him out, but I freeze like a deer in headlights. My words lodge in my throat, choking me. No matter how hard I contemplated, there aren’t enough words that will do justice to how I feel deep down inside. Every phrase and every swear word I lined up disappears, and all I can do is stare at him.
We stay like this for several minutes. Him watching me from the floor and me working to keep from looking in his direction. He smirks and presses down on his palms to lift himself up. Dusting his hands on his jeans, he groans and adjusts his shoulder. I shoot up from my chair and yank open the fridge for a bottle of water. The door slams as I make my way back to my linen closet where I remove an old sling. I return to the living room, forcefully pushing both the brace and water bottle into his chest. His back buckles, and he grunts at the impact, but uses his good arm, the right one, to catch the items before they fall.
I turn on my heels and pick up my empty plate and fork, placing them in the sink. With my back to him, I shift to one leg and reach in my cupboard for the bottle of vodka, pouring myself a full glass. Tossing it back, I shut my eyes and let the liquid course down my throat. My muscles relax, and I release the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. When I am facing forward again, I find Dylan pulling out the second chair and sitting at my dining table. The nerve of him boils my blood, and I shoot daggers into him.
“The food smells good. What was it, one of your famous steaks?” He leans forward to rest his elbow on the wood surface and down the water I gave him.
“Why? There isn’t any left for you.”
I lie, and he knows it, too. No sooner than the words leave my mouth, he glances at the pan on the stove where the serving I saved for Eric sits. He laughs, and it pisses me off. I slam the glass down on the counter, not caring that I could have shattered it.
“Who said that you can sit, Dylan? Now that you’re on your feet, you need to leave. Like, now!” I bark and push off the surface, heading for the door.
He reaches out and grabs my wrist, stopping me. His touch sends electric pulses straight to my heart, and it skips a beat. I jerk from his grasp, slowly backing away. Dylan drops to his knees, inches in front of me. My chest ripples with anger, and I glare down at him. I didn’t think it was possible to hate him anymore than I did before. Seeing him like this shakes me down to my core. Out of the six years I’d spent loving him, I’d imagined him bending before me one hundred times, proposing and making me his for life.
He cups my hand in his. “Constance, just please let me explain? You don’t owe me that, but I wish you’d at least hear me out.” Dylan stares at me, literally on his knees begging me.
It’s because of that, I’m even considering listening to what he has to say. I know I shouldn’t want to know, but a part of me needs to know. Why now? Why, after a year, is he here and shot? He pulls the back of my hands to his lips, but I flinch from his grasp before he can kiss me. I side-step him and retreat to the far side of my living room to put much-needed distance between us.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I turn to face him. “You’ve got five minutes, then I want you the fuck out of my apartment.”