Page 104 of Mr. Brightside

I’m not conflicted. I’m heartbroken. I feel like a shell of a human, just going through the motions, knowing that when I get back to Hampton, I have to move out of the condo and put an end to every version of us.

I can’t even think about him without tearing up. How the hell am I supposed to face him?

I cycle through the indisputable facts every time I doubt what I have to do.

Jake isn’t a good partner for me.

He hurt me not once, but twice, in the exact same way.

He didn’t even realize he’d fucked up until I laid it out for him: that’s how emotionally immature he is.

It was only going to last two years, anyway.

The last excuse is shaky at best—my heart knows we were on our way to much more than the messy “marriage with benefits” arrangement we started with. But repeating all the practical reasons loving Jake Whitely would have ended in heartache softens the blow.

After a day of silence, the calls started to come. He called me at least a dozen times yesterday, and he’s already tried to reach me a few times today, too. I haven’t answered a single one. I don’t want to give him false hope. And I can’t say what I have to over the phone.

I still care about him. I care about him so much I ache. But I can’t be his salvation if I can’t even put on my own oxygen mask when we’re together.

I owe it to myself to protect my heart and be proactive, instead of sitting back and waiting for the other shoe to drop. I just wish that stupid bleeding organ in my chest would catch up.

I’m going to break up with Jake.

I glance down at the boarding pass in my hand and double-check the gate number. I sit down on the edge of one of the awkward interconnected plastic seats and stick my bag on the chair beside me to fend off any fellow travelers looking to socialize.

When I lift my hand from the bag, the lighter band of skin where my wedding ring used to be catches my attention. If that isn’t the saddest, most perfect analogy for our relationship.

It doesn’t matter if I try to block him from my mind or tell myself this is the right thing to do: there’s a part of Jake Whitely that’s branded on me in a way I can’t escape. Hopefully in time, like the tan line from my ring, it’ll all fade away.

Chapter 44

Cory

Dreadwashesovermeas I push through the front door of Abuela’s house. I called her to tell her I’d be out of town for a few days, but beyond that, she knows nothing. I don’t know how the hell I’m going to explain this. If I hadn’t come over here gushing like a schoolboy weeks ago, I’d probably feel less ashamed.

I’m not two steps into the house when I’m hit with a wall of mouth-watering scents. All worries dissipate when I breathe in the fragrant aroma of sancocho simmering on the stove.

“Abuela,” I call into the house as I kick off my shoes and drop my bag near the door.

I listen for her response, but am met with the sounds of her deep, robust laughter instead. She says something I don’t catch, and I realize she’s either on the phone or not alone.

I’m another two steps through the living room before I hear it. Not it:him. The unmistakable cadence of his laughter wraps me in a tingly embrace before my brain catches up and reminds my body that we can’t let him affect us like that anymore.

What the hell is he doing here?

I shuffle into the kitchen as quietly as possible, turning the corner just in time to see Abuela pinching Jake’s cheek affectionately as he doles out one of his adorable, dimpled smiles.

Seriously.What the hell?

I clear my throat to garner their attention. Abuela turns her head and beams, rushing over to wrap me in her arms. I let her hug me as I lock eyes with Jake over her head.

“I didn’t know you would be here,” I open, leveling him with a stare that saysdon’t fuck with me right now. He has some nerve inviting himself over like this—inserting himself into this part of my life I hadn’t shared with him yet.

At least he has the decency to look sheepish. I tilt my head, daring him to tell me he said anything about us to Abuela. His brows draw together before he gives me a quick shake of his head.

I blow out a long breath as I debate how to play this.

“Tu esposo called me yesterday, nieto. He was asking about your favorite foods, and told me he wanted to surprise you. He did not believe me when I said I did not have a recipe for sancocho. I insisted he come over and learn it himself!”