Spitfire in Love (Chasing Red 3)

He didn’t answer. I closed my eyes, praying for patience.

“If you’re not going to talk,” I said under my breath, “just go. I want to go home.”

“I don’t know why the fuck I can’t let you go,” he said suddenly.

My chest felt tight.

“I—”

My phone pinged with a text and he stopped whatever he was going to say. Then his eyes narrowed.

“Same guy who texted you this morning?” His voice was cold again. How fast he switched moods. “I know I was gone for a few weeks, but I didn’t expect you to move on so fast.” It was a statement. He believed it. “Makes me fucking wonder if I should even be here.”

He raked his hands through his hair as he looked down at the ground. When he looked up, his eyes were accusing.

My temper ignited. “Go to hell!”

I had no idea where he was coming from. I don’t know why the fuck I’m here? And that look he gave me made me furious. As if I had no right to move on, as if I cheated on him when he was the one who left. We weren’t even in a relationship.

Makes me fucking wonder if I should even be here? He might as well have told me I wasn’t worth it. It fucking hurt. I couldn’t go on like this. This had to end.

“I wish I hadn’t met you,” I said softly.

He looked stunned for a moment, and whatever emotion followed was shadowed when he lowered his eyes from me.

“I was fine before I met you,” I said. “You’re confusing me, but worse than that is you’re hurting me. And I feel so pathetic because I’ve been so careful, so fucking careful, protecting myself from people like you. But you’re so good, so convincing, because in such a short amount of time, I let you in my life. You asked me to trust you, but you won’t give the same thing you’re asking of me. You’re hot one minute, then cold the next. You say one thing that touches my heart, but then you break it by not saying anything at all—by disappearing without a word.

“I wish you didn’t tell me any of those lies that night before you left,” I continued. “I wish you’d just left, then it would’ve made it easier for me to forget about you. Then I wouldn’t have to worry or feel like I’ve done something wrong to push you away. I wouldn’t have to miss you or keep expecting you to text or call.”

I was showing him my heart again, opening it up so he could shred it…again. Why didn’t I learn? But he had to know, and maybe after this, it would be over. And the thought that it would be over scared me. So I got angrier to mask the fear and fought harder.

“If this is a game you’re playing,” I continued, my voice breaking, “just stop. I know you don’t feel the same way about me, and I’m not saying this to burden you. It’s my fault too. I built you up in my head, expected things I shouldn’t. And I’m responsible for my own feelings. But now I just want all of this to stop. I don’t want to care about you anymore. It’s heartbreaking to care about you. You make it so hard. So just fucking stop. Get the hell away from me.”

I got in my car, slammed the door closed. My tires squealed as I drove out of the parking lot. And this time, I didn’t look back.

* * *

When I parked in front of the local gymnasium, my anger had left me, replaced by a whole lot of tiredness and numbness. Today had been a long day, as usual, but the emotional storm that Cameron brought into my life felt more exhausting.

I grabbed my phone and read the text message Deb had sent while I was in the parking lot with Cameron. She gave me a date when I could start and I replied yes.

I slid out of my car and walked to the gym entrance. I saw my dad priming the poop-brown walls with white.

“Hi, Dad.”

He jumped, the paint roller almost jumping out of his hand. We were jumpers in the family. Even Dylan was—most especially Dylan.

“You scared the bejesus out of me!”

“Sorry.” I laughed and the sound made me wince. It sounded rough. I dropped my backpack on the floor and crossed to him.

The gymnasium was probably over five thousand square feet. It was old, dark, and dingy. The new white walls would definitely light it up. It was unfortunate that they had built rooms near the entrance, where it disrupted the flow of the space. If they took down those walls and moved them to the rear, beside the stage, it would open everything up. It was huge. I wondered how long it would take my dad to finish painting. And how tired he’d be.

“Where’s your helper, Dad?”

He dipped the paint roller in the pan. “He just left. Jamie phoned him, and she said their kid’s pretty sick.”

“I hope Junior’s okay,” I said. “He was just eating ice cream with his daddy in town when I saw him last.”