Diary of a Bad Boy(102)

And that’s when I realize where I am.

I spring forward, looking to the empty side of the bed. The pillow is untouched. I quickly swing my gaze to the bathroom and don’t see any sign of life either. Gathering the robe Roark bought me at the end of the bed, the one I keep at his place, I throw it over my shoulders and sprint-walk to the living room, scanning for Roark.

Nothing.

The kitchen is similarly empty, the only “life” being the slow-dripped coffee brewing due to a pre-set timer.

Did he not come home last night? My blurry eyes read the time on the oven. Six in the morning. He never stays out that late. Where could he be?

My eyes drift to the guest room and wonder if maybe he came home, saw me in his bed, and chose to sleep in the guest room instead. Heart pounding, I walk over to the closed door, squeeze my eyes shut in hope, and open the door. A perfectly made bed and not a soul in sight.

He didn’t come home.

At all.

Maybe he responded to one of my texts. I walk back to the bedroom, robe flapping at my sides, and wake up my phone, but when the screen comes to life, I see nothing. After we left the restaurant, we spent a good few hours looking for Roark, calling and texting him, but we came up short. Dad called it a night and told me to get in touch with him the minute Roark came home.

I spent the rest of the night crying on the phone to Maddie. She listened quietly, interjecting her gasps of surprise every once in a while, and when I told her I loved him and I was scared he wouldn’t take me back, she reassured me, telling me there was no way he would be able to stay away. He didn’t the first time.

And I’d like to believe that, but now, alone in his apartment with silence as my company . . . it makes me wonder. Could I really have lost him?

I open a text to send to Maddie when I hear the distinct bell of the elevator dinging someone’s arrival. Dropping my phone, I take off down the hall just in time to see Roark make his way into the living room, head turned down, hands in his pockets. When he looks up to see me, there isn’t a flinch in his reaction. Not a smile. Not a hint of surprise, almost as if last night sucked every emotion out of him.

“Roark,” I breathe, feeling relieved and worried simultaneously. “Where were you last night?”

“Rath’s,” he answers, his voice hoarse. When he looks up, I see the bruising around his eye and nose and cringe. God, that must hurt . . . and it’s there because of me.

Hands still in his pockets, he asks, “What are you doing here, Sutton?”

“Didn’t you get any of my texts or calls?”

“I turned off my phone.”

He speaks in a monotone while avoiding all eye contact with me, the usual playfulness in his voice gone. I’m worried.

Scared actually.

“Roark, can we please talk? Last night—”

“Last night was the slap in the face I needed.” He finally glances in my direction, his weary eyes circled in bright crimson.

He moves through the living room, past me, and down the hallway to his bedroom where he starts to strip out of his suit jacket and button-up shirt.

Unsure of what he means, I follow him. “Slap in the face? What are you talking about?”

“You can’t be that dense, Sutton,” he answers, a dose of malice in his voice.

“You’ve been gone all night, leaving me worried with unanswered texts and calls, so excuse me if I want an explanation,” I answer.

“Your dad called it like it is: we shouldn’t be together. I knew it the minute I started having feelings for you, but I needed the reminder.”

I swallow hard, trying not to react to his words but imagining myself in his shoes. He’s hurt, upset, and probably a little bruised from last night’s conversation. I can’t take his words too heavily, not when he’s probably trying to protect his heart.

Cautiously, I step into his closet, closing him off in the space, and lean against the doorway. “I understand you’re upset. I can’t imagine what’s going through your mind after yesterday, but don’t push me away when we can easily work through this. Dad knows he was wrong. He admitted it and—”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re not working through anything, Sutton. It’s over.” He pushes past me, a new shirt and a pair of jeans in hand.

“You’re going to give up, just like that? After you were so desperate to see me yesterday? That’s it, you’re over me?”

He shucks the rest of his clothes and hops in the shower, not letting it warm up. I watch as he quickly washes his face, body, and hair. After a minute at most, he’s out of the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist. When he notices I haven’t moved, he lets out a long sigh.

“You know I can’t just get over you like that, Sutton.”

“Then why are you fighting your feelings? Why not make everything right instead?”

“Because,” he shoots back, looking at me in the mirror, his hands gripping the bathroom counter, his chest flexing under his imposing stare. “I’m never going to be good enough for you, and I’d rather not feel like a piece of shit every time you’re near me. I already hate myself as it is, so I don’t need the reminder when you’re around.”

I’m strong, but that hurt.

Not letting my pain get the best of me, I say, “Doesn’t it matter what I think? Because I do think you’re good enough, you were made for—”