His hand clenches at his side and releases. A jagged breath, and he strides out the door.
My insides cave in, beaten and bruised. As much as I want to call out to him and beg him to stay, I won’t. I’m not his girl.
The door shuts behind him, and the hollow sound of desertion ricochets through me. I roll toward the mirrored wall, tucking my knees to my chest. Pressure builds in my head, and the stupid tears spring up with a vengeance.
I’ve never felt so used, so…thrown away. But I’m just as much to blame. I could’ve said no.
I wanted sex tonight, and now that I’ve broken that crippling dry spell, I feel worse. Because intimacy is what I desperately crave—intimacy with a man who loves me.
For a poignant moment, Trace gave me a glimpse of that. Then he took it away.
I don’t even want to think about our lack of protection. I have an IUD, but what about disease? Did he use a condom with Marlo?
Nausea roils in my stomach. He fucked her…an hour before he had sex with me. Maybe he’s on his way back to her now. To hold her in his bed. To love her the way I ache to be loved.
Cole would’ve never done this to me. He was nothing if not faithful and one-hundred-percent devoted.
Waves of pain smash into my chest, and I slam a fist against the floor, pounding it as I cry ugly, self-loathing sobs. “I miss you, Cole. I miss you so much.”
Before he died, he ripped out my heart and held it between us, dripping with the blood of dreams. Old anger surges to the surface, cracking my ribs and burning up my skin. He shouldn’t have left me. He put his job first and destroyed everything we had.
I need a drink. A lot of drinks. It’s the only way to numb the pain and forget.
Blinking through blurred vision, I find my reflection in the busted hole in the mirror. My splintered, pitiful, broken face stares back, judging me.
Are you giving up, you pathetic bitch?
I’m comfortable here, lying on the floor in a pool of regret. I’ve grown addicted to sadness. It’s familiar, reliable, effortless.
I know that’s resignation talking. Giving up is a whole lot easier than fighting through the scar tissue. There are so many things holding me down, suffocating my will to breathe.
I need a purpose. A reason to contribute in this unfair world.
I have that, don’t I? I have passion—dancing, family, neighbors, the homeless shelter. That’s where I’m needed.
Love isn’t a choice. Nor is life. We connect, or we don’t connect. We live, and we die. There is no forever. The real fight is in making the best of it, making a difference, and appreciating the small glimmers of happiness.
I stretch out an arm and trace the cracks in the mirror. The last time I stared at my broken reflection was the night I moved my life with Cole into the basement. I just hauled it all down there, left it where it fell, and locked the door. It had been such a big step then.
Tonight, I need to finish it.
Forcing myself to stand, I shed the tattered scraps of the dress and remove my phone from the wristlet on the floor. Then I set my playlist to Dancing On My Own by Calum Scott.
Trembling, I pull on a camisole and boyshorts. Choking, I collect the key and my engagement ring. Weeping, I stand at the basement door as Calum Scott serenades the ruins of my heart.
With a deep breath, I unlock the door, turn on the lights, and descend into the fumes of damp concrete and Cole Hartman.
When he moved in, he took over the unfinished basement, filling it with tools, motorcycle parts, weight-lifting equipment, and other manly stuff. The scent of engine oil lingers in the air. Punk rock posters cover the walls. His old futon sits beside multiple workbenches.
Then there are the things I moved down two years ago. His clothes, cologne, watches, CDs, wedding decor, boxes of photos and keepsakes I collected during our ten months together. But the sight of the white dress crumpled on the floor is what releases the floodgates.
My eyes drown in tears as I move my feet toward the gown. My fingers travel over the dusty tulle and beaded bodice. It would’ve been a beautiful wedding. Our marriage would’ve been as epic as our love.
My ribcage quakes with the force of my heartache as I gather the dress and hug it to my chest.
I don’t know when I finally uncurl my fingers and set the gown aside. I move in a fog of turmoil, opening the empty boxes Bree gave me, digging through piles of Cole’s shirts, sniffing each one, and crying harder.
Then I start packing.
The next morning, I wake on Cole’s futon in the basement to the sound of footsteps creaking the floorboards overhead. My brain slowly rouses, my eyes swollen and itchy. I shiver and pull the scratchy blanket over my shoulders.
No, not a blanket. I slept with my fucking wedding dress.