Closing the door, I sit down on the edge of the bed and pull up Google. I start searching for a flight back home. Preferably the cheapest possible.
My hands are shaking. My legs too.
It’s okay, Dillon. It’s gonna be okay.
I find a flight that leaves early tomorrow morning with two changes in Vienna and Frankfurt, but they’ll get me to Manchester, and it’s cheap. It’s not like I’m in any rush to get back to England. I have nothing to go home to.
Tears well in my eyes.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes to stop them from falling.
I’m okay. I’ve gotten through worse.
Sucking in a breath, I go to West’s closet. I ignore all of his clothes hanging there, and I pull my two cases out from where they were stored. I open them both up, laying them on the floor. I pull my clothes from the hangers and drop them into the largest case. I get my underwear from the drawer he gave me to use. Then, I go to the bathroom, get my things from there, and drop them in the smaller case.
I close my cases up, and I sit back on my heels. A tear hits my leg.
Stop. No crying. Not here.
I wipe my face dry with my hands and then order an Uber from my phone.
Standing, I shove my phone in my back pocket and pull my cases upright. I get my bag from beside the bed. Remembering my phone charger, I unplug it and shove it in my bag, and then I hang it off my shoulder.
I glance around West’s room, making sure I’ve not forgotten anything else. But all I see are the times when I lay in his bed with him, his arms wrapped tight around me.
God, this hurts.
So much.
I stand there, breathing in and out, fighting down the hurt and pain and panic that all want to be free to wreck me.
I’ve got this. I just need to get out of here.
Grabbing hold of my cases, I drag them out of his bedroom.
West is standing by the window, staring out. He turns when he hears me. His eyes go down to my cases and then up to me. There’s no emotion there. Not even a flicker.
“I got a flight,” I say, hating how raw and croaky my voice sounds.
“For tonight?”
I hate even more how normal his voice sounds. This isn’t affecting him at all.
“Early tomorrow morning, but I’ll just get a room at the airport hotel.” I don’t actually know if there is one, but if not, I’ll just hang out around the airport. I don’t see myself getting much sleep tonight anyway.
“No, just stay here tonight, and I’ll drive you to the airport in the morning.”
“It’s fine, honestly.”
There’s no way I can stay here tonight. Knowing that he no longer wants me. I don’t think I could bear to be under the same roof as him and not be with him.
“It’s best if I go.”
“Can I drive you to the airport?”
“No, it’s fine. I’ve got an Uber coming.”
“Can I at least help you with your bags?”
“No. I got them.” My words are short because I need this over with. I need to get out of here.
“Okay.” He rakes a hand through his hair, and I feel a pang of pain in my chest, knowing that I’ll never get to touch him that way again.
My throat is burning, and tears are threatening my eyes again. I need to leave.
Dragging my cases to the front door, I leave them there. I go to the small closet where my shoes and jacket are and put them on.
I turn back to West. He hasn’t moved. He’s still standing in the same spot. And my heart aches so fucking much.
“So … I guess this is good-bye.”
He says nothing, and I fidget on the spot, wanting more than anything to stay but knowing that I have to leave.
I open the door and drag my cases out into the hall. West still hasn’t moved, hasn’t said anything.
I take a step back into the apartment. “I just wanted …” My voice breaks, and I clear my throat. “I wanted to say thank you.”
His brow furrows. It’s the first real sign of emotion I’ve seen in him since he walked out of his bedroom and ended us. “You’re thanking me?”
“For inviting me to stay here with you. It’s been”—everything—“nice.”
“Nice,” he echoes.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I get it out and look at the screen. “So, um … my Uber is here.” It’s time to go. My insides start to rattle as the reality of the situation takes hold.
This is the last time I’ll ever see him. Ever speak to him.
I stare at him, desperately trying to soak up the last remnants of him that I’ll ever have, imprinting him into my memory. Wanting him to come over to me. Say something, anything. Even if it’s good-bye. But even more, I wish that he’d tell me he made a mistake. That he doesn’t want me to go.