EMBER
My heart is crushed. I'm shaking all over, hyperventilating too hard to even sob.
I can't think. Can't even feel—it's not numbness, it's…shock.
I drove here like a bat out of hell, ready to throw myself at Felix, ready to beg him to comfort me, to hold me, to make me feel safe again.
To soothe my grief-riddled heart.
Instead, I find a gorgeous woman in his bed. Tall, skinny, with perfect black hair and a twenty-thousand dollar Birkin bag on the foot of Felix’s bed, her French manicured fingernails flirting with his cock, her mouth on his, kissing him.
His lips that are supposed to be mine.
His cock that's supposed to be for me.
I was ready.
I wanted it.
His heart.
His love.
Rage at the unfairness of life smashes through me like a hurricane, and I feel my lungs freezing solid in my chest, and my head vises in on itself until it's three sizes too small, and my heart is pounding against my ribcage with such rabid ferocity that it's physically painful and medically worrying.
Gears grind as I try to get the shifter into first. I know I shouldn't be driving in this state, but I have to get away. I know he'll have an excuse or an explanation, and I just don't care.
"FUCK!" I scream, and then smash the steering wheel with my fists, screaming my throat raw.
I take a deep breath and hold it—finesse the shifter into first and messily lurch away from the curb.
Past the sleek black Mercedes convertible which must belong to that woman.
His ex. The one who fucked up his heart.
Well, let her repair it, then.
Fuck him.
I can't even really run away—he still has my bus.
My cell phone rings—I ignore it until it stops, only for it to start ringing again immediately. He calls six times in a row and leaves six voicemails. And then the barrage of text message alerts, coming so fast that the alert tones overlap.
I can't see through my tears. I have no idea where I'm going. I'm not even sure I'm on a road. I shouldn't be driving, but I can't risk letting Felix catch me. I'll be weak and let him explain. I don't want an explanation. I don't want to know why his ex was in his bedroom at four in the morning.
A little voice niggles at me, deep down, whispering questions.
Why was she dressed and sitting on the edge of his bed as if she'd just arrived, while he was in bed and half-naked?
(They just finished fucking and she was about to leave)answers the hurt in my soul.
Why did he look so upset, so confused, so hurt?
(Because he knew he was guilty, guilty, guilty)answers the hurt in my heart.
Why was there a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol on his side table and an empty garbage can beside his bed?
(Drunk ex sex, obviously)answers the hurt in my mind.
