She rears back, her hands falling to her sides. “Are you fucking serious?”
I lift her off my lap and place her on the couch beside me. I stand, snag my cigarettes off the table, and turn to face her.
Arms crossed over her chest, she taps her foot on the floor. I can see her brain working, scheming. Eventually, she lets out a humorless laugh.
“You used me.” She stands from the couch.
With a grunt, I light my cigarette, take a long drag, and blow the smoke out slowly. “I’ve been honest from the moment I texted you. I needed your help; that’s all. This was a ruse and you knew it. How the fuck did I use you?”
She stands and saunters closer, her hips swaying. “Come on, Dom. Let’s not pretend. You wanted her out of your life, and we made that happen. I love you, and I don’t care what you did.”
She brings her hand to my cheek, but I take a step back before she can make contact.
“Don’t,” I warn her. “Don’t touch me.”
She drops her hands to her sides, huffing. The sound is muffled. White noise. Her figure is blurry and distant. Now that Mia is gone, I can’t feel a thing.
With a shake of her head, Remi takes her jacket from the couch and yanks it on. “You’re an asshole. I don’t know why I thought I could change your mind.”
She turns on her heel and strides toward the door. Halfway there, she stops abruptly, returns to me, and slaps me across the cheek.
I don’t flinch. I barely feel it, barely hear the cracking sound when her palm meets my face. Staring past her, I take another drag of my cigarette.
“I hope you loved her,” she hisses.
I do.
“I hope she never looks your way again.”
I hope so too.
“Because you, Dominic Watson, don’t deserve anything good. You’re a real piece of shit.”
I exhale a cloud of smoke and nod. “I know.”
Scoffing, she bolts to the door. She slams it, making the artwork Mia hung rattle against the walls. With that, I’m certain the twisted connection Remi and I had for so long is finally over. She will never come back.
So, in a way, I set both girls free.
What a gentleman.
I stand near the couch, my cigarette between my fingers, my chest suddenly tightening in a way that almost has me doubling over.
The cigarette is not enough. Not for this. Not for the pain that grows with every breath I take. So, I crush it against the top of the coffee table and go for the stash I swore I wouldn’t touch but brought into this apartment anyway. I drop to the couch and roll a blunt. Then, I light it and take a long, slow pull.
Head resting on the cushion behind me, I stare at the ceiling, wishing I could flip a switch and turn the world off, wishing the pain would go away. Fuck, what I’d give to forget the hurt look she wore when she walked in.
Instead, the weed only makes my senses sharper. It makes the memories more vivid. It slows them down so I can remember every detail.
Fuck. I want to scream.
The scene plays in my brain on repeat. The way her eyes dulled and the color drained from her face. The way she walked to this fucking table, head held high, shoulders rolled back.
She looked like a queen.
Like a fucking goddess.
Her pain was palpable, rolling off her with such force, it swamped me, stole my breath, but fuck if I’m not proud of theway she handled herself. The way she walked away without a single word, not a single glance back. The way she closed the door without hesitating. In that moment, I knew I’d done what I set out to do.
