I was weary, my joints ached. This was supposed to be my second day kicking around LA. Instead I was here, dragging myself up my cracked walkway, past the rotting stench of the dumpster. When I came close enough to set my automatic porch light off, I saw something crumpled on the ground.
It was a half-eaten dead mouse.
Swallowing down a wave of nausea, I peeled my purse open. Lifting the keys high, I struggled with the door. I started to shove on it, baffled when the knob didn't move. My door was as solid as a wall.
What the fuck? Blinking, I turned the keys in my hand. I didn't recognize them at all—and then I did. Silver had handed me copies of his, I'd completely forgotten.
Shaking my head to clear the webbing, I finally found my keys and let myself inside. Carelessly, I dropped my purse on the floor. The pink sweater soon followed, landing somewhere—I wasn't really watching.
Plugging my phone into my charger beside the kitchen table, I filled a tea kettle with water. I was setting it on the stove, the blue flames clicking on, when I heard the first 'beep.' On autopilot, I lifted my phone.
Twenty-two missed calls.
All from Silver.
Running my thumb over the edge of the device, I hesitated. Don't talk to him. Don't even read his messages.
What could he say that could change how much I hated him?
Nothing.
Not a word.
Yet still, I opened the texts.
Silver: Talk to me, please.
Silver: Where are you?
Silver: Tell me you're okay.
Silver: Pet, answer me.
Silver: Did something happen?
Silver: Did I happen?
Silver: If someone hurt you, I'll kill them.
Tensing up, I read that last text again. The one who hurt me was you, I thought. Reading his words sent shame tumbling into my wall of betrayal. I should have told him I flew home. What if he thinks I'm in LA and something happened to me?
He must be so worried, so lost and confused. It wasn't my problem, but...
Pushing the phone to my forehead, I groaned. “No,” I said to myself. I needed to hear my own voice out loud. “He fucked up—he beyond fucked up. That guy could have killed me! He nearly did! I don't want to talk to him at all. Never.”
Never was a sharp word, it made me tense up.
Against my skull, my phone vibrated. Startled, I pulled away, watching as a new message appeared in stark black letters.
Silver: I won't leave you alone until you tell me you're alright. Not knowing is worse than death, Pet. Talk to me.
Crumbling into a chair, I saw myself from a distance. One by one, I typed the letters on my phone. I was justifying my reasons, saying to myself, He deserves to know that I hate him. Wouldn't that feel good?
My text said: Don't ever contact me again.
The kettle started to whistle, fraying my already raw nerves. Jumping up, I rattled the cups over the sink. The tea was too hot to drink, so I leaned over it and breathed in the steam.
It'll be okay.
Everything will be okay.
My phone started blowing up, message after message hammering at me. They came so fast that I backed away, gawking at the device as it vibrated madly. Silver was desperate to reach me.
I snatched up my cell and turned it off. The sudden silence was heavy, unnatural. Listening to my breathing, I grabbed the table and worked at calming down.
In all things, Silver was demanding. He didn't care that I'd instructed him to leave me alone. I had a chilling feeling that this wouldn't be the end of it.
Of us.
Ignore him, change your number, whatever it takes. I was never going to see that man again.
Walking through the living room, I paused. The pink LA sweater was sitting on a chair where I'd dropped it. Throw it away. Stepping closer, I squinted at the shiny laminated letters. You threw away his gifts before. This will be easy.
Do it!
Clutching my tea, I walked closer to the sweater... and I kept going.
I'd done many things to block Silver from my life. I'd even sold the earrings that I'd loved—the very first gift he'd sent me—just to get away from him.
I told myself that I didn't need to do more.
So I only had myself to blame when I woke up smelling him.
The source was easy to find; I still had the jacket he'd draped over me the night I'd run from his apartment. Fingering the collar, I slid my palm down the sleeve. What was I going to do, give it back to him?
Fondling the buttons, I stopped. It was too easy to remember him wearing this, how it stretched over his broad body, or how he'd play with the cuffs and make me think of him playing with me.
Deep in the pocket, I found the business card. I'd left it there after discovering it, not sure what to do with the thing. Bending a corner, I read the printed words. Keswick Silverwell. I knew where he worked, maybe I could send the jacket back to him. That would let me avoid him entirely.
Stalled by indecision, I took the easy road—I would do nothing today.