7. Reed

Reed

7

These past couple of weeks, Mason has been busy at the shop and Lyla hasn't been feeling well, which has left me with too much time to think and not enough to do. It probably doesn't help that I've been hiding away in my room most of the time since it's easier than facing people.

Every night when Mason gets home, he checks in on me. He'll appear in the doorway to my room, and I'll realize I've been in bed all day sleeping or thinking.

He'll cook dinner, regardless of what time he gets off work, and offer me a plate of food. He must really enjoy cooking because I've never met anyone who goes through the trouble no matter how late in the evening it is.

On days when Sage comes by to see me, I pull myself together so he won't worry more. I shower and cover my face in makeup. I wear the mask I don't feel forced to paint on around Mason.

Mason's around me too much to believe it. Besides, he won't say anything.

He doesn't hound me about my appearance, and he doesn't force me to hang out with him when it's clear I'd rather keep to myself. And best of all, he doesn't force me to talk. We coexist in silence and shared meals.

It's why I still haven't taken Sage up on his offer to move to the Twisted Kings compound. At the apartment, I don't have to pretend.

Every day that passes, I hope I'll start to feel better. I hope the sayings are right and that time is capable of healing wounds as deep as the ones festering within. But the weight of knowing I'm going to have to face this eventually sits heavy, and I don't know how many days, weeks, or months are enough to cure me of this.

Carter has continued reaching out to Sage in an effort to get to me. And no matter what my brother does to try to protect me, eventually he will, given he wields the perfect combination of power and money to grant him anything he wants.

His connections don't end in San Francisco. Which means, that even if I've yet to see Carter, he's just biding his time.

My entire body tenses at the thought.

Grabbing the laptop Sage brought by this morning, I step outside for the first time in two weeks and slowly head up the stairs that wind up the side of the building and end at the roof.

Additional locks have been added to the gate at the bottom of the staircase, and security cameras now cover every blind corner. If anyone opens the bottom gate, Mason and Sage will be notified, and it makes me feel the slightest bit better.

I find my way to the roof to get some space before I'm consumed by my thoughts. I've always appreciated it up here. It's a wide-open terrace that looks out at the nearby buildings. And right now, it's a way to spend time outside without the risk of seeing Carter or being surrounded by people on the street.

It's the middle of winter, but in LA, it reminds me more of late spring in Boston from my days in college. I'm wearing a sweater and sweatpants, and even if the sun has set, the temperature is comfortable.

I sink into one of the chairs on the roof and open my laptop, waiting for it to come to life.

When I first got to town, I called my boss and let her know I needed to take a couple of weeks off for a family emergency, and since I haven't taken a day off in years, she didn't mind. But at some point, I'm going to have to start working again, even if my muse feels like she left me.

Being a journalist is a great way to balance my need to dig into the tiny details, while also allowing me a creative outlet. But ever since leaving San Francisco, I've had this roadblock in my mind every time I think about writing.

I'm the voice of authority for the blog. Someone who champions change and doesn't back down when cornered. But I don't feel like her right now.

I've been a coward, and I'm in hiding.

When my computer finally hums to life, I open my email to sift through the messages. Even if I'm not ready to get back to work, I can at least check off a few little things so I have less to deal with when I finally come out of this fog.

A breeze tickles the back of my neck as I wait for my email to load on the screen. Loose pieces of hair whip around my face with the wind, and I get a chill up my spine. The city is dark this late at night, but it's never truly asleep in this part of town. People are always buzzing around, and streetlamps blanket the block in a warm glow.

But you can't see the sky.

I remember lying in the grass at the Twisted Kings compound and counting the stars when I was a kid. Wishing for things that seemed important at the time. Glancing up, there's nothing but smog and light pollution. But still, I feel them up there. Wishes that somehow got twisted.

Maybe it's a sign I should return to the compound.

Lyla called earlier to say she has a room ready at her and Sage's house in the neighborhood. I could lie in the grass and look up at the stars. Ask the universe for a different fate.

If only the girl I am felt like she still belonged there, this would be easier. But I'm weak—not ready to face the place that raised me.

If my father's looking down on me now, he's probably disappointed. He didn't raise a fragile daughter. And even if he sheltered me in comparison to my brother, he raised me to be strong. To be a fighter.

He taught me how to stick up for myself in the most impossible situations. And I did for so long.

That's the trouble with love—it's dangerous in ways no amount of training can prepare you for. It sneaks up and hits hard. It consumes.

My email finally loads, and I skim my messages. Most of them are sources sending in tips and my boss forwarding research projects for when I get back to work. I sort them by sender, and my stomach drops as I skim through the list.

Carter Connors—thirty-six unread messages.

My fingers freeze as I stare at his name, sitting on the screen in front of me. Since I left my phone at the apartment we shared, he hasn't been able to reach out to me directly. Sage fields his phone calls and refuses to let him through.

But Carter knows I can only avoid working for so long, and he knew I'd see this at some point.

The knot tightens in my throat, my fingers hovering over the keys. I should select his name and delete the list because there's nothing he can say that will make what he did up to me. Instead, like the sick masochist I am, I open the folder and start at the top.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

You left? It was a small fight; you're being ridiculous again.

I'm sorry, okay? She didn't mean anything.

Where are you staying? I'll come to get you.

I love you.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Come on, baby. Answer your email. You know I didn't mean what I said. It was a rough day, but I can't handle you not being here. It doesn't feel right. Please come back to me.

I love you more than life. I need you, baby.

I'll even go and talk to someone. Promise. It'll get better.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

You ran to your fucking brother? Are you kidding me?

You think that lowlife can keep you away from me?

What kind of game do you think you're playing? They can't keep me away. You're it for me, babe.

Call me back. I'm sick of talking to your angry guard dog.

You know I love you. That piece of shit just doesn't understand us. No one understands us.

But I get you. I love you. You know only I can give you what you need.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Seven days. I'm counting.

Call me.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

After six years, this is what you do to me? You disappear. Did you ever even love me or was it all just a game you've been playing?

I loved you… I still love you, even if you're ripping my heart from my chest just to fuck with me.

Come back, and we'll talk about this. We'll figure it out.

I can't keep giving chances, but I'm still willing to make this work. Call me.

Your love,

Carter

There's more. So many more. But I delete them before I keep falling down this rabbit hole. It's a mirage of hurt, rage, and guilt. A wave I'm used to at this point.

Carter's apologies crash like waves. A roll of emotion that evolves from anger to regret. But something about seeing it in writing. Seeing how he's turning this in on itself until it's my fault has tears springing to my eyes.

How did I believe it for so long?

I'd buy this. Time and time again.

I would tell myself that he could change. That we would go to therapy, and he'd work through whatever he was holding onto from his childhood. His father was abusive toward him and his mom, and I wanted to believe if he resolved those issues, he could be different.

I would convince myself he loved me enough to try. That if I just gave him a little grace and loved him a little more, it would heal whatever broke him inside.

I believed in him, so I'd take him back every single time.

We'd be good for a few weeks, and we'd start to pick up the pieces. We'd find our routine and settle into our daily norm. We'd be better for a short while.

But we never did end up going to therapy, and we never actually worked through anything. And slowly, the wheel would once more spin into motion.

It always started small. He'd get frustrated over a dish in the sink, or I'd ask for an explanation as to why he was out so late. He'd start to blame me for little things, like the fact that he couldn't find his favorite tie. It always started with yelling, and I tried to tell myself that's where it would end this time.

He'd learned his lesson.

But a rough day turned into a rough week, slowly becoming a rough month. And then…

He just needed to let out a little tension.

A cycle I fed into time and time again. And instead of healing himself, he extended his pain to me.

I'm done, even if it hurts.

I love him, even if I hate him.

So many conflicting waves of emotion battle inside me. But I can't go back, not this time.

Even if he gets the help he needs, I can't recover what I've lost in the process. I might not ever find love, but I deserve respect. And I hope someday I get it.

My fingers shake as I stare at my computer screen, knowing I'm not ready to face this, but I don't have a choice. The emails all flood together as I stare at them through blurry eyes and try to make sense of them.

Work has always been the most important thing to me—aside from Carter.

He took that too. My creativity and my drive.

Pressing my lips together, I close my eyes and take a shallow breath through my nose. I lose myself in the day-old, rain-soaked smells of LA and drown my thoughts in the bustle of the streets below.

I escaped.

Tonight, that has to be enough.

There's only so much I can control, and what I do next is going to be part of that.

Opening my eyes, I click on a new email. My fingers are shaking as I hover over the keys. My heart races with what I know I need to say. It won't solve anything, but it's the first step. Until I take it—until I say it—this isn't done.

I can't heal.

My fingers start to move, typing his name. Each letter feels like I'm manifesting him in front of me. I leave the subject line blank and move straight into my message.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

It's over. Please just leave me alone.

Wishing you the best.

Reed

His reply is almost immediate. It's short, to the point, and says more than all the rest.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Can't, baby.

See you soon.