Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 43540 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43540 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
“Looked easy to me.”
“How dare you? You have no idea what I went through.”
“I could say the same.” I hate how she looks at me. Hurt, confused. Like I’m the only bad guy in all of this. And I’m sick to death of being that to her.
“Easton, I don’t want to fight with you. I’m done battling with who got hurt worse.” My fists clench at my sides as a tear slips down her cheek. “I thought we could call a truce. Put it in the past. Because I can’t keep rehashing this. It’s hurting us both, and we both have deep scars to show for it.” She grabs the bottle of wine and her glass. “But that seems impossible. Because you’re too weighed down by that chip on your shoulder.”
She walks past me. I ache to grab her and pull her in my arms, but I restrain myself. Just before she disappears into my bedroom, she calls back. “It’s my turn to slam a bedroom door and hide. Enjoy the couch.” And then, as promised, she slams the door behind her.
Chapter eight
Callie
I can’t run up the stairs fast enough. Easton is going to freak out when he sees the concert tickets I just scored. His birthday is next weekend, and I had to sell a kidney to get them, but it’ll be worth the look on his face.
I dig through my purse to find my keys, locate the one to his apartment, and slide it in. Unlocking the door, I push it open and walk in, but I’m brought up short. I gasp at the view in front of me. My keys fall from my hands, grabbing Easton's attention.
“Fuck, Cal, this is not what it looks like.”
The woman gripping him, naked, doesn’t even bother to look my way. “Yes, it is,” she giggles, pushing her hands deeper into his pants.
I can’t stop staring. I grab my stomach as if someone just punched me in the gut.
“Get the fuck off me. Cal, please—”
I turn around and sprint down the stairs. I thrust open the outer door, gasping for air, but I still can’t breathe. Clutching my throat, I choke on a broken sob. Easton is behind me. “Cal, I swear to fucking God, that was not—”
“Fuck you,” I hiss, walking away.
“Callie, stop. You don’t understand. I have no idea who that girl was—”
“Stop! Oh my god! Stop! You fucking asshole!” Tears race down my cheeks. This isn't happening. Please let this be a bad dream. “I just caught you. Like, holy shit, I just caught you cheating on me.”
“Babe, no—”
“You piece of shit!” My fists slam into his chest over and over until I lose my battle and break down. “How could you?”
“I didn’t. I just walked in—”
I push him off me. “We’re done. You hear me, Easton Cruz? We. Are. Done!” He grabs me, but I panic and yell to the guy walking past, “Help. Please, help me. I don’t know this guy, and he’s harassing me.”
“Seriously?” Easton looks at me, shocked.
“Back off, man.”
“Don’t fucking touch me. She’s my girlfriend—”
“I am not. I’m nothing to him.” Then I take off running, hearing him scream my name as I go.
***
I lock myself in Easton’s room. Ditching the glass, I take a deep pull from the bottle. I keep myself busy by snooping through his things. It seems he’s become a minimalist in the past couple of years because there’s nothing of sentimental value in his drawers or nightstand.
I smell his shirts and help myself to a pair of sweatpants. In the closet, I notice a small shoebox in the corner, hidden behind a pile of boots. I pull it out, sit with my legs crossed, and pop off the top of the box. My lips part, and I suck in a sharp breath. I reach down and pick up the first photo. It’s Easton and me on our second date. He took me to a concert, and I remember forcing him into the photo booth. I told him the best memories are the ones captured in a retro picture machine. Beneath that is a pile of photos. All of me. Of us. I pull out the stack of cards I gave him. Love letters that I wrote to him.
My chest tightens at the two printed tickets I never used. I must have dropped them that day when I walked in. Two tickets to Raging Against the Machine. Still intact. Why has he kept all these things? I shouldn’t be going through this. It feels wrong. I return the photos to the box when something else catches my attention.
A small black box.
Cautiously, I reach for it and pick it up, but something stops me from opening it. Like whatever’s inside will wreck me all over again or destroy whatever healing I’ve achieved up to this point. I put it back and shove the box back where I found it, hurrying out of his closet to find where I left the bottle of wine.