“It wasn’t like that.” He shot up and approached me.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” I choked on the well of emotions that were clawing at my throat. Everything, every fear, every secret, every flaw was there. In the open. He’d seen it. He’d analyzed it. He’d picked at it. Then he’d used it against me. What didn’t he know about me?
Somehow, I’d conveniently forgotten that he called me trailer trash in my dream. He’d really said it. Tears filled my eyes and trickled down my cheeks, that shame burning brightest. I was that scruffy little girl again with everyone looking down at me, feeling sorry for me, pitying me. It was my dirty secret come to light. And worse, he knew I had really begun to like him, and I was just some stupid trailer-trash girl looking puppy eyes at him. God damn it!
“Stop it!” He said harshly. “I had to do it. It was about national security.”
“Fucking me was about national security? I see. Well, tell your boss you did a great job.” I smirked and fresh tears coursed hotly over my cheeks, which only served to piss me off more. I never cried, particularly not in front of others, yet here I was, again, crying in front of him. “Just stay the hell away from me!”
My last glimpse of him as I walked out of his bedroom was of frustrated confusion marring his features. The need to come after me was written all over his face, but instead, his hands were on his hips. He looked so much like his younger self, which was somehow giving me an achy feeling in my heart.
I needed to leave.
Grabbing the knob and giving him a final, scornful look, I slammed the bedroom door shut with a satisfying crack. With nothing left to say, I walked out, hoping to keep my dignity, or as much of it as possible, on the short trek back to my apartment. Only the party boys from the apartment under mine were out to witness my walk of shame, and at one of their catcalls, I delivered the finger, which only made them laugh and made me feel worse. This was a new low. I had Ryder to thank for it.
The only question I had left was why? Why was he doing this to me?
Crawling under the blankets on my bed and just shutting out the world for the rest of the day and night seemed like a fabulous idea, until I entered the apartment and saw the mess again. Something else to have to deal with. Great. The world was just out to get me. Why? What had I ever done to anyone to deserve any of this?
So do I call the police? Was anything even stolen? And how many different fingerprints from previous tenants were they going to find that would prove to be absolutely worthless if I did call for them to investigate? How much wasted time? Emotion? Energy? No one cared about people like me. Ultimately, I decided that calling would prove to be a hassle with useless paperwork that would go nowhere. Nothing would be accomplished, except that all of the neighbors would know all my personal business. Definitely didn’t need to call.
I spent the day alternately moping and crying as I cleaned up the apartment. I swept up shards and dirt from the living room floor. I restacked DVDs and CDs, picked up magazines and tried to restuff the cushions of the couch. That was going to require some sewing, but luckily, I knew how to do that and figured on spending quality time with some bad reality TV and my sewing kit later.
I left a message for Cynthia about the break-in and was only that much more depressed when she didn’t even pick up. For some reason, her room hadn’t even been touched. Maybe the person had gotten spooked and run off before completing the job.
But I still had questions for her. I was confused. She probably wasn’t even a real friend, I thought morosely, and I cringed at the sophomoric tone of my whining. Jesus, I was sounding so goddamn high school I was making myself sick, and still I felt like a walking wound, all achy and sad. It just proved to me that you couldn’t trust anyone.