Chapter 122 (1/2)

Denial, that’s exactly what this is.

It doesn’t have to be, though. I can change the outcome of all this. I can be who she needs me to be without dragging her down to my hell again.

Fuck this, I’m calling her.

Her phone rings and rings, yet she doesn’t pick up. It’s almost six—she should be done with work and back at her place. Where the hell else would she go? While debating whether or not to call Christian, I push my feet into my gym shoes, lazily tie them, and shove my arms through my jacket.

I know she’ll be upset—beyond mad, surely—if I call him, but I’ve already called her six times, and she hasn’t answered once. I groan and run my fingers over my unwashed hair. This giving-each-other-space shit is really fucking irritating me.

“I’m going out,” I tell my unwanted houseguest. He nods, unable to speak due to the handful of potato chips that he’s shoveling into his mouth. At least the sink is free of dishes now.

Where the fuck am I even supposed to go?

Within minutes, my car is parked in the lot behind the small gym. I don’t know what being here will accomplish or if this shit will help me, but right now I’m growing more and more irritated at Tessa, and all I can think about doing is cussing her out or driving to Seattle to find her. I don’t need to do either of those things . . . they’d only make things worse.

Chapter seventy-seven

TESSA

By the time my plate is clear, I’m practically twitching in my seat. The moment we ordered our meals I realized that I left my phone in my car, and it’s driving me more insane than it should. No one really calls me much. However, I can’t help but think that maybe Hardin has, or at least sent me a text message. I’m trying my best to listen to Trevor while he talks about an article in the Times he read, trying not to think of Hardin and the possibility that he may have called, but I can’t help it. I’m distracted during the entire dinner and am positive that Trevor notices; he’s just too kind to call me out on it.

“Don’t you agree?” Trevor’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.

I scramble through the last few seconds of conversation, trying to remember what he could be talking about. The article was about health care . . . I think.

“Yeah, I do,” I lie. I have no clue if I agree or not, but I do wish the server would hurry and bring our check.

As if on cue, the young man places a small booklet on our table, and Trevor hastily pulls out his wallet.

“I can . . .” I begin.

But he slides several bills inside, and the server disappears back into the restaurant kitchen. “It’s on me.”

I quietly thank him and glance at the large stone clock hanging just above the door. It’s past seven; we’ve been in the restaurant for over an hour. I let out a breath of relief when Trevor says, “Well,” claps his hands, and stands.

On the way back to his place, we pass a small coffee shop, and Trevor raises his brow, a silent invitation.