Just Like Her

Chapter 20

Tom

It was hell waiting for her, but my mother was right—I had no one to blame but myself.

I spent the majority of the morning pacing laps around the apartment, frequently checking for missed messages. There were none.

By noon, my mind had completely turned against me. It replayed our relationship at nauseating speed: the night we met in the aisles of Flannigan's; our chance reunion at the Children' Hospital fundraiser; the deep-purple of the balsamic leisurely dripping from her lower lip; Emma's stumble and my pulling her into me; the silhouette of the steeple; the weight of Ema's head resting on my bare chest; her bouncing backside as she sauntered to the loo; his repugnant figure hunched over hers—

Just then the flashes slowed to a near still.

His greedy fingers snaring her wrist; my body flying across the room on its own volition; the growing whites of her eyes; the guttural growl he emitted as he forced her against his heaving chest.

Emma's knee; my forearm crushing his trachea.

Her shaking hands; her steady voice; the contusion silently spreading beneath her skin.

Her tears at my impulsive words...

I hated myself in that moment, and in the moments since when I had reflected back on it.

Emma had needed my support, but I had been too absorbed in my own emotions to give it to her. Why would she seek me out again when I'd so obviously failed her?

Surely she could easily find someone else better able to comfort her—someone who was able to listen to her, who understood her needs better than I could, someone with whom she could be completely open and who could be unconditionally honest with her in return.

Just as I'd convinced myself that Emma would never reach out, my phone pinged to life.

My heart leapt and then sank as I read the name of the contact: Charlie.

Call me if you need anything.

I didn't blame Charlie for the media attention—our past mistakes were equally mine as they were his—but I still didn't feel the desire to talk with him, not yet anyway.

I popped open my computer to try and check-in with the office, but after staring at the screen for ten minutes, I gave up and closed it.

I debated getting out of my flat but eventually decided against it, partially to avoid any paparazzi in the street waiting to snap my photo and add further fire to the already fanned flames, but mostly out of fear of missing Emma. What if she were to come by while I had stepped out?

As the minutes turned to hours, I grew less and less confident that she would come, but I still wasn't willing to risk it.

Besides, I told myself, I didn't deserve an escape.

Being left alone with my thoughts was the worst kind of punishment. I doubted there was anything Emma could say that was worse than what I'd already said to myself.

But as it turned out, I was wrong. Very wrong.

Around three in the afternoon, a soft rapping sounded through the door. I was in the kitchen, mindlessly cleaning out the fridge when I heard it.

I sprinted to the door and slid to a stop just as I pulled it open, not even bothering to check the spy-hole.