Part 21 (1/2)

A fling with Mindy f.u.c.king Abraham is right up there with a lunch date with Hitler. It's nothing to be taken lightly. He puts his hand on my arm and I flinch away.

”Felicity, don't be stupid.”

A nerve is struck and my anger and self-doubt boil over, bubbling together into a deadly combination that sends me into rage mode. ”I'm not being stupid! I guess I just finally see this.”

”See what?”

”What this is, who I am to you.”

”What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?”

”This!”

His eyes widen and he shakes his head. ”You're not making sense. Calm down and let's talk about this like adults. If I knew it would cause such an issue, I never would have brought it up.”

”Well, I'm glad you did because now I know the truth on where we stand.” I must be a fling too. Nothing serious. Maybe I mean nothing to him too. The thought breaks my heart and instead of feeling sad, I'm p.i.s.sed. The anger will fade and the hurt will be setting in, but not yet. I'm mad now. I need to hold onto that anger while I can to protect myself.

No, I don't think rationally when I'm in an emotional crisis like this. ”It makes sense now. You never took me to one of your fancy art shows. You're still seeing other people, bringing them to your house ... I saw the women's shoes there, by the way ... and I can't-” my voice breaks with emotion and my mind continues to whirl.

”Maybe it's my fault and I gave you the wrong impression because I slept with you on the first date. I don't do that. It's not who I am, but there was something special about you, something I couldn't ignore and you made me get carried away. It meant something to me, but I guess it meant nothing to you.”

I stand and turn around, wiping away tears before Ben can see. Push him away before he pushes me. It's a subconscious defense mechanism and if I calmed down, I'd realize what I'm doing.

But I don't. I can't. Ben means too much to me that logic isn't going to apply right now.

He doesn't move. He doesn't speak. My heart pounds in my ears and each second that goes by makes me realize that my words are true. If they weren't, he'd protest, tell me I'm wrong, say he was sorry for messing with my head. The silence is killing me, and my mouth opens despite my better reasoning, saying I should shut the h.e.l.l up because I say things out of anger than I regret later. I know I do. Always have, always will.

”Then the office booty call ... The signs were in front of me. But I guess that's how you are with everyone, right?”

Still, all I get is silence from him.

”If I mean so little, then just go. Call up one of the other girls you're seeing or even Mindy.”

I get nothing. Come on, Ben. At least be angry. Shout, yell. Tell me I'm right and that you don't care. Tell me I'm wrong and I'm stupid.

Just.

Say.

Something.

”That's what you think of me?” he finally says and his voice is broken.

”Yeah. It's obvious now.”

He sharply inhales. ”Felicity, that-no,” he cuts off, shaking his head. ”I thought you were different, but I guess I was wrong. I should go.”

I whirl around, not expecting that. And I'm not expecting the hurt on his face.

Oh, f.u.c.k.

”Ben,” I start but he's already on his way out. His hand is on the doork.n.o.b. He turns, eyebrows pushed together.

”I never asked you to go to my fancy art events because I always take my mom. It's her shoes you saw at my house by the way. She stays with me when she's not staying with my dad, who has memory problems after so many head injuries fighting in the war and needs round-the-clock care. You could have just asked me about it. I don't bring it up because it's not exactly fun to talk about, and most people here don't understand the culture on my mother's side, and see living with their parents as a burden. But I thought you would.” He turns his head and our eyes meet for what I'm sure will be the last time. ”I thought I loved you. I was wrong.”

Then he leaves.

And it hits me all at once: I did the very thing to Ben I hate that people doing to me.

I judged him. I made a.s.sumptions and filled in the blanks with misinformation. I let my own insecurities get the best of me, and I let Mindy f.u.c.king Abraham ruin my life, nearly ten years after high school.

You've won, Mindy. Again.

My chest rapidly rises and falls and I suck back a sob. I blink and shake myself, then sprint to the door. But I'm too late. Ben is already pulling out of the driveway, driving down the street. I watch, tears filling my eyes, as the tail lights of his Audi disappear.

Suddenly I can't breath and it takes everything I have to go inside and close the door behind me. I fall onto the couch and cry. I messed up. Big time. I was so worried about getting hurt that I ended up hurting myself.

I am my own self-fulfilling prophecy.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

I don't know what to do. I wipe my eyes, sit up, and swallow a sob. My phone is in my purse, by the couch. I pick it up, madly rummage through for my phone, and call Ben. I get his voicemail. I wait a few seconds then call again. It rings once then goes to voicemail.

He hung up on me.

I close my eyes, barricading more tears, and try not to hyperventilate. He's mad right now. Just like I was. He needs time to calm down, and he's not even home yet. I fall back onto the couch and wait.

One minute goes by.

Then one more.

I want to call him again. Now. But it hasn't been enough time. My heart is still pounding, and I feel sick. I f.u.c.ked up. I said things out of anger and fear, things that make no sense and that I don't really believe.

He said he thought he loved me.

And now I know that I really do love him. I fell for him even though I didn't want to, even though I was sure he would hurt me.

I hurt him.

I hate myself for it.

And I have no idea how to make it better. I can't take back what I said. I can't delete this glitch, reprogram the day and start over. I bite my trembling lip and know the only thing I can do is tell Ben I'm sorry and wait for him to calm down enough to hear me out.

I call him again. Two rings then voicemail, and take a breath. The words die in my mouth and I'm hanging out without saying a word. I fall onto the couch, tears running down my face. I'm suddenly exhausted, and it feels like it takes an incredible amount of energy to put our dishes in the sink, grab a bottle of wine from the fridge, and go into my bedroom. I sink into bed and start drinking. I gulp it down, letting emotion be my guide, and soon I'm feeling sick before my mind hazes over. But I don't stop now. I keep drinking until I literally can't and pa.s.s the f.u.c.k out.