Slowly, I tiptoed over to the brown package again, my socked toes sliding on my hardwood floor. I picked it up and searched for a name.
Nothing.
I took a deep breath and couldn’t fight it any longer.
I tore into that package faster than opening presents on Christmas morning.
My fingers shook as I turned a CD over and over again in my hand. It was a plain silver CD, enclosed in a black felt sleeve. I went to put the CD back inside—because there was NO way I was going to listen to it, because I knew what would be on it—but something crinkled inside.
My fingers felt a piece of paper in between the felt, and I slowly pulled it out.
Heat blasted me on the head and went all the way to my toes. My face felt hot, my ears were simmering, and my hands were sweating. The first scratchy line of handwriting had my breath catching in my throat.
I told you not to give up on me, and I really hope you listened—although we both know you’re stubborn when it comes to me. I’m ready to give in, Brooklyn.
Then, on the backside of the paper, the scratchy handwriting continued.
Thanks for helping me with this album. I owe it all to you.
-Reid
Oh, Brooklyn
I Was Wrong
You Were Right
I Just Might
Love You
After We Met
I Gave Into You
I Faced My Demons
In the End
Here’s The Dirty Truth
I’m Here
For You
I couldn’t breathe. My eyes scanned each song title of Reid’s album several times before I realized t
hat I needed to take a breath.
Surely…he didn’t.
No.
The songs were not in a particular order, giving a subliminal message. Absolutely not.
This was all a lie.
Someone had made all of this up. Someone knew that I had this massive thing for Reid King, and that we’d had sex only for him to tell me to leave afterward, mortifying me beyond belief, and they created this sick joke.