He’s not judging me for it—at least, I don’t think he is—but that doesn’t make me feel any less like a loser. And it sure as hell doesn’t make me feel any better about needing his help.
Again, I think about accepting help from Ethan and Chloe. I think, even, about how I felt accepting help from Miles when I got here early yesterday morning. It wasn’t ideal, but it didn’t incite this bone-deep reaction in me then. Didn’t make me feel like a whore.
The only thing that’s changed since then is my relationship with Miles. How I feel about him and how I want him to feel about me. From the time we first met, I’ve made no bones about the anger I felt at him—just like he made no secret of
the contempt he felt for me.
Now all that has changed in the course of thirty-six hours—or at least, it’s changed for me. I don’t have a clue how he feels.
And that, I realize as I stare out at the storm-tossed sea, is the problem here. That I don’t know where I stand with Miles. The sex changed things between us, obviously—but did it change them enough? Or does he still feel contempt for me? Still feel like I’m a trust fund baby who isn’t good for anything but a quick fuck?
Just the idea makes me wither inside. It’s not that I want a commitment from him—it’s been less than twenty-four hours since all we did was snipe at each other, after all. But I do need to know that he respects me, that he doesn’t feel sorry for me. That he doesn’t think of me as poor, pathetic Tori.
And when I saw all that stuff in the foyer, when I realized he’d ordered me everything from shoes to underwear to a brand-new laptop, I was afraid that that was how he saw me. That he’d ordered me all that not because he was doing me a favor to help me get back on my feet, but because he didn’t think I could find a way to take care of myself. I was afraid that—like my father—all he could see were the screwups. The mistakes. The problems that I can’t help but create for myself.
And so I took it out on him. I accused him of treating me like a prostitute because I’m terrified that that’s how he sees me. Not because he’s given me any indication that that’s how he feels, but because I can’t get my father’s words out of my head. I can’t stop thinking about him telling me that I should have slept with Alexander to keep this from happening. After all, what’s one more time, one more guy, after so many?
If my own father can feel that way about me, then why shouldn’t Miles? Even though he’s never given any indication that he does…
Fuck.
I owe him an apology. The knowledge grates.
I hate apologizing—really, really hate apologizing—but there’s no getting around it. I was a total bitch to him and he didn’t deserve it. Probably. Maybe. I mean, he could be thinking everything that I’m afraid he is…In which case, I wouldn’t really need to apologize—
No. No. No. I’m not going down that road again. I’m just not.
I climb to my feet with a heavy sigh. Brush the sand from my butt. Fix my hair. Straighten up my tank top. Then order myself to stop stalling as I force myself back up the stairs.
But when I get back to the house, Miles is nowhere to be seen. Everything he bought me is still piled neatly in the foyer, but he is definitely gone.
It’s anticlimactic, to say the least. Not to mention a little nerveracking. I mean, logically I know that he’ll be back—soon probably—but there’s an irrational part of me that thinks maybe he’s had enough of my bullshit.
God knows I have.
Which only makes me more nervous about where he is and when he’s coming back. And that’s a problem, because I shouldn’t care. We just slept together for the first time this morning. I shouldn’t be so emotionally invested. And yet I am.
Frustrated and more freaked out by everything than I want to admit, I pick up the cordless phone in the kitchen and call Chloe. Not to talk about Miles, because the last thing I want to do is go there with Chloe. I just want to hear a familiar voice.
But Chloe doesn’t answer. I stare at the phone for a few seconds, debating, then decide to hell with it and call my brother. We’re not exactly what you would call close—he’s always been a little too much like our father for that. But with my mother in France, he’s the closest thing I have to family in this city.
I half expect my call to go to voicemail—like I said, Jason and I aren’t what you’d call close—but he picks up on the second ring.
“Tori! Are you okay? Where are you?”
The panicked note in his voice is the last thing I expected and it warms something inside me, something that’s been frozen since my father showed up at my condo two days ago.
“I’m fine. I’m at Chloe’s.”
“Thank God. Do you want me to come pick you up?”
“Pick me up? But you’re in LA.”
“It’s a two-hour drive. I can be there before dinner.”
“You want to come down here?” I can’t keep the incredulity out of my voice.
“Jesus Christ, Tori. Just because Dad has his head up his ass doesn’t mean I do. I don’t know what the fuck he was thinking, but let me come get you. You can stay with me—”