Submitting in Vegas (Vegas Morellis 3)

My phone vibrates and a message pops up. It’s from him, “Fuck, Gin, I can’t believe this. I don’t know what to say.”

I don’t know what he should say either. He can’t say he’s not a cheating assface, because I have lots of information now emblazoned into my brain to shut that argument down real quick.

Another message comes through, and my heart drops. “I didn’t want you to find out this way. That’s so shitty.”

What the fuck? The way I found out isn’t the shitty part, asshole. I text back to let him know that.

When he responds, lacking in real remorse, it makes my stomach hurt even worse. Tears burn behind my eyes and blur the message, but it’s already too late. Every pixel is emblazoned to memory, completely inescapable.

“I’m sorry, Gin. I’m just not in love with you anymore. I want to tell you I’m sorry, but honestly I’m so happy with her… I’m sorry I didn’t say something to you sooner.”

“Oh, God,” I murmur to no one, putting the phone down on top of my thigh. I can’t look at it anymore. I don’t want to look at it ever again.

Suddenly overwhelmed with a helpless rage, I fling the phone against the white cinderblock wall. The phone doesn’t break. I want it to break. I want every picture, every text message, every memory erased.

Only I know erasing them from the world won’t erase them from my mind, and this is why I despise my memory.

Sobbing quietly to myself, I drop my face into my hands and try to hide from the world. At least I’ll have the memories of this pain to remind me why I avoid relationships. I let Nate trick me into thinking he was worth it, but I should have known better. My freakish brain makes heartbreak too intense. Dealing with the inevitable letdowns is too much.

I should be so good at breakups. I can build a case against someone just by watching their imperfections. Normally, I can’t keep from watching the signs and noticing when it’s clearly not going to end well.

I completely missed this one, though.

This is the first time I’ve ever been in a relationship serious enough that we moved in together. I’ve never slept in someone else’s bed before, never unpacked boxes in a kitchen where I thought we would be doing cute coupley things. When we slept in that bed cuddled close and unpacked those boxes, I never could have imagined him doing something like this.

God, I am an idiot. Now that the admission is out there, so many things rush to mind. So many stories I believed that now sound like lies. He was going to meet his study group for coffee at 8pm? Who drinks coffee at 8pm? Not Nate, because he can’t stay up past 11. The time his car broke down when he was at his friend Tom’s house and it was late, so he just decided to stay the night and get the car fixed the next day. I offered to pick him up, but he didn’t want to interrupt my studying.

Right. My studying. How fucking considerate.

I wasn’t suspicious, that’s the problem. I didn’t think I had a reason to be. Things were fine. We live together. We have a routine.

I trusted him.

“Oh, shit.”

My head jerks up just in time to see a man in a sharp tan suit in the narrow hall leading to this supply room. He has already swiftly pivoted and started to turn away, but now his steps slow and he turns back in my direction, albeit reluctantly.

Rafe Morelli rakes a hand through his golden hair, looking somewhat torn on his own reaction to catching a woman alone in the supply room, crying her eyes out. The gallant side of him must win out, because he approaches me, even though I’m a crying mess.

“Hey. Everything okay back here?” he asks.

I nod my head. “Yeah. Fine. Sorry, should I not be back here?”

Rafe shakes his head. “No, you’re fine, I just… I was going to grab Craig some oil for the fryer.”

I sniffle again, shifting my legs to make more room for him to get past. “Go ahead.”

Clearly my crying was more the problem than the close quarters back here, but he nods like all is well and eases past me so he can grab oil out of the corner. He pauses when he almost steps on my phone. Bending down to grab it, he asks, “This yours?”

I nod, too drained to care about how embarrassing this is. “Yeah.”

For a moment, he looks at the phone as if weighing his options. Clearly, the phone holds the answers to why I’m crying, or I wouldn’t have thrown it. The devil and angel on his shoulder don’t fight for very long.

Once he has made his decision, he doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s checking my phone right in front of me. First he lights it up, then he checks my open programs. I still have the picture of Nate and her open so he probably sees it, but doesn’t know what it is. The ongoing text message of horrors is also open, and if he actually read it, that might answer the unasked question. Rafe looks it all over briefly and I can’t help wondering if he’s looking at her. Does he think she’s pretty? I bet he does.

When he finishes his perusal, his eyes drop and he sighs. Finally, he reaches forward and offers the phone to me.

I don’t want it, but it’s not his problem, so rather than telling him to burn it, I take it and shove it in my apron.