Hostile. It’s the only way I can describe his voice. There’s no hurt, there’s no confusion, just pure hostility.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“We’re done talking. Did you not get that last Friday?”
“No, I did.” My throat tightens, making it hard to squeeze out my words. “But”—I swallow hard—“I wanted to tell you something, before you shut the door on me.”
He doesn’t say anything, but stands there, waiting. I guess that means I continue. “My intention wasn’t to use you, Jason, nor was it to make you feel that what we had wasn’t true. Before you knew who I was, I felt something for you, this strong force pulling me toward you, a force I wanted to ignore for as long as I could because I was scared.” I clear my throat. “When I made a slip-up in my business meeting, claiming you as my boyfriend, I knew it was stupid, and the minute the words fell past my lips I instantly regretted them. After the meeting, I convinced myself that because you were trying to get me to go out with you, I could give in to my feelings and take you up on a date.”
His jaw clenches and I know he’s seconds from slamming that door in my face.
“I met with the Carltons this week and told them the truth. Like I expected, it was a deal-breaker, but I wanted to be honest anyway—”
“I’m glad your conscience finally kicked in.” His hand grips tighter on the door. “I don’t have time for this shit.”
He starts to close the door, but I shout, “Jason, wait. Please let me finish.”
“No, Dottie, I’ve heard everything I want to hear. Nothing you say is going to change how I feel. We’re done.” Shocking me, he slams the door, the sound of a steel lock clicking into place, and I know. Opening it will never be possible . . . ever again.
I haven’t seen this side of Jason before, so angry, so unforgiving, which only means one thing: I hurt him to his core, and it seems there’s no recovering from that.
Heart heavy, I gulp hard as hot tears slip down my cheeks. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I didn’t expect it to be this hard, this painful . . . this devastating.
Then again, I’m sure this is exactly how Jason felt when he read that email.
I wish I could challenge Jason for doubting the truth of my feelings rather than simply believing the initial lie that set things in motion. But maybe Lindsay was right. Maybe I hadn’t given him enough of me, I had held back parts of me.
This overwhelming misery is on me.
On a choking cry, I cover my mouth and tear away from Jason's door. I once thought that Nick destroyed me. He didn’t. He never touched my heart.
Unlike Jason Orson.
He owns my heart.
Even in its shattered form.
Chapter Ninety-Four
JASON
Ten years later . . .
“Dude, you look like shit,” Carson says, clapping me on the shoulder.
“This is my best sweater, and it’s supposed to make me look devastatingly handsome.”
“It’s olive green,” Carson says with a question in his raised eyebrow.
“Leave me alone.” I rest my head on the counter. “It’s been ten years since my heart was broken and it still aches.”
“Ten years?” Carson laughs. “It’s been ten fucking days.”
Ten days later (That’s right, sorry about that) . . .
“I know, but ten days has felt like ten years. And I thought wearing my green sweater to Friendsgiving would be a nice pick-me-up but you just peed all over that idea.”
“Does anyone like this sweater besides you?”
“I get a lot of once-overs whenever I wear it. I think it’s how the color brings out my delicate green eyes.”
“Or it’s the cross-stitched mountain range on the front.”
I glance at my sweater and then rub my fingers over the cross-stitch. “I used to pretend it was brail and it would read, ‘You’re handsome, always have been, always will be.’”
“I don’t understand how we’re friends.” Carson shakes his head.
“Running pole-to-pole suicides at Brentwood together formed an unbreakable bond.”
“God, you’re right.” Carson takes a seat next to me at the bar and picks up a bacon-wrapped scallop from the appetizer platter. This is no ordinary appetizer platter; this shit is fancy. Emory, Knox, and his mom went all out and when I said I wasn’t coming, they told me Dottie went to California to have Thanksgiving with her family, so I had no choice but to come for a while before I went to my childhood home to spend time with my family.
As promised, I brought the yams, but to hell if I was going to bring homemade stuffing on Dottie’s behalf. Ohhh, no. I wasn’t about to slave over the stove for her. Not again.
If I’m being entirely honest, sometimes I think about the charred ham and what it would have tasted like if it didn’t get set on fire by an inferno of lies. I think about how the wine would have paired perfectly with the rich flavors I infused into that meat. I’m clearly upset over what Dottie did, but there’s also a piece of me that’s upset that I let the ham catch on fire. Rookie mistake, leaving the watched-over broiler for a second.
I think we all know what happens when you take your eyes off the broiler; it eats your meal alive and then laughs at you when you’re crying into your burnt and unrecognizable dish.
Can you tell I’m trying to think about anything but the heart-splitting reality that the girl I was falling for obliterated my heart?
And fuck, what was she thinking coming over the other day? I know she wanted to apologize, but seeing her, wrecked like that . . . fuck, it’s only made things worse. I never want to see my girl with red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks. It just about did me in, but even though seeing her pained me, I couldn’t quite feel the pain. I knew it was there, harboring deep in my bones for later, but in that moment, all I saw was red.
Anger boiled over, and I didn’t want to hear one word she had to say.
Because in all honesty, it doesn’t matter. She broke my trust and that isn’t something we can recover from. Not when she’s been in the same position, not when she’s been used before, not when she made me believe what we shared, the bond I clung to every second of every goddamn day was real . . . when it wasn’t.
Fuck, just thinking about it again has my stomach hollowing out in nausea.
“Hey, what are you two doing?” Milly asks, saddling up next to Carson and placing a sweet kiss on the side of his cheek.
Glad they’re in love. Sense the sarcasm?
What I wouldn’t give to have that kind of affection right now. I almost ask Carson if he’ll kiss my temple and lovingly stroke my pec but think better of it. I’m pretty sure I know what the answer would be, even in my vulnerable state. Maybe ten days ago, right after everything went down, he might have petted my head for a brief moment, but now, he’s probably thinking I should have gotten over everything.
The heart doesn’t work that fast unfortunately.
“Carson is making fun of my sweater,” I say, popping a black olive in my mouth.
Milly leans over to look at it. “Is that cross-stitch?”