The Accidental Text

“Seems a little dramatic for a few phone calls, hot stuff.”

I shiver at the pet name. It’s what he used to call me when we were together, first in a complementary way and then – once he’d revealed his true colors – in a cruel and insulting way. He’d laugh as he said it, making it clear that he saw me as anything other than hot… that all the things he said to me, in the beginning, were lies, ways to reel me in.

“You called me seventy-one times last month,” I snap. “I don’t think that’s me being dramatic.”

“How cute. You counted.”

“Leave me alone. This is your last warning.”

“Such a brave little thing, aren’t you? It’s like you’ve forgotten I know where you live.”

I suppress a groan. After Declan and I broke up, I tried to make sure he didn’t find out my new address. But then, one day, I left my apartment to find him lurking outside. We argued, and he pretty much admitted that he’d followed me home from campus…

But Declan is too smart to come right out and say it.

Instead, he dropped a few hints, gave me a few significant looks, and then left. I’d move out of that place today if I had the money, but I don’t and he knows it.

“You’re threatening me,” I whisper, as I try to push away the fear.

“I’m not. I’m just pointing out a basic fact.”

“What do you want from me?” I’m almost yelling now, my voice pitched high, drawing looks from the passing pedestrians. “You said it yourself when we were together. I’m nothing special. You delighted in telling me that. So what is it, Declan? Do you just like hurting me? Are you really that twisted?”

“I want to give things another go, hot stuff. Can you blame me? You really are a catch.”

“You’re sick. You just like to make me squirm.”

“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Please, just leave me alone,” I plead no longer caring if I sound pathetic.

I’m crying now, the tears streaming down my cheeks. I can’t help it as they cut vicious lines down my skin, stinging, both physically and emotionally. I promised myself my days crying over Declan were long behind me, and yet here I am.

“You’re acting like I’m a monster. Lots of women have it far worse than you ever did. You need to grow up.”

“What, I should be grateful?”

“Maybe you should. I could’ve made your life a whole, whole lot more difficult.”

“What. Do. You. Want?”

It’s a struggle to push each word out, my tears trying to choke me, to make me useless like Declan always said I was.

“I just wanted to say hello.”

He hangs up, doing the classic Declan thing of taking the last word without giving me a chance to respond. I want to keep myself together, to be the sort of woman who can shrug off his abuse and act like it doesn’t bother me.

But then, without really knowing how I got here, I’m leaning against the alley wall and letting the tears take control of me. My hands are on my knees, my body hunched over as I squeeze tightly, choking and coughing on the tears.

A little voice in the back of my head tells me Declan’s not worth it, telling me I need to calm down before Asher arrives.

The last thing I want is my crush seeing me like this, a sniveling wreck. I’ve probably already ruined the light makeup I applied after my shift. I rarely wear makeup, but I wanted to look pretty for him, just in case this isn’t completely platonic and innocent.

Forcing myself to stand up straight, I do the calming exercises I learned in the months after leaving Declan.

I focus on the sensation of my body, my breath, nothing else. It’s a mindfulness technique to try and pull me into the present moment, to stop me from dreading the future or fixating on the past.

But then another bout of tears hits me and I’m back where I started. I hate it. I hate that he can reduce me to this, hate that I so easily succumb to the sadness. The Victorian women I study had so much more to deal with, and many of them were able to face their problems without sinking into a pit of despair.

I straighten again, meaning to try my calming exercises a second time, and that’s when I see him.

Asher is standing a few feet away, his iron hair framing his face perfectly, looking like a different species to the sniveling mess I’ve become.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, as I cringe under his intense eyes.

“You don’t have to apologize for crying,” he says sternly, closing the distance between us in a few long steps.

I stare bleakly up at him, too tempted to fall into his embrace. He came here thinking he was meeting with a student about her essay, not to be invited to my pity party.