Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(89)
Disbelief joined his fury, like kerosene to a flame. He spoke rapidly, his whole body shaking. “Calm down? It’s not a bad thing? I’m not an idiot, Chloe. This whole time, I was—and you were just using me for your fucking—ticking boxes and laughing with your sisters about—”
“I would never do that and you know it!” she snapped, panic sharpening her breaths. “Red, listen to me. I put you on the list because you’re important.”
He dragged his hands through his hair so hard she knew it must have hurt. “Important like doing something bad?” he rasped, his tone harsh and mocking. “Didn’t you use me for that, too? And I thought it was fucking cute.”
She stiffened. “You don’t understand—”
His shout was ragged, ripped from his chest, a mix of anger and pain that burned her like acid. “Don’t tell me I don’t fucking understand. You will not make a fool out of me!”
A strained silence fell. He looked as shocked by his outburst as she felt. But the hollow emptiness between them birthed a desperate idea: she couldn’t make him trust her, not when he was so obviously spiraling, but she could show him the truth—if only he’d give her a chance. She’d find proof, find the list, and he’d come back to her and stop shaking, stop shouting, stop looking at her like she was someone else.
She’d never wanted to strangle anyone as much as she wanted to strangle a stranger named Pippa right now.
“Just wait,” she said. “I’ll show you.” She bent over the coffee table, rifling through rubble and paper and countless notebooks, searching for the notebook, the one that would fix everything.
He heaved out a breath. Made a sound like cracking glass that might have been a laugh—a broken, broken laugh. “Yeah, I bet. You’ll search for some kind of evidence that’ll prove you aren’t a manipulative, lying user, only you won’t be able to find it. But oh, shit, if only you could. Right?” He didn’t sound angry anymore. He sounded tired. Bone-deep, dog tired. “Just stop, Chlo. You got me. It’s done. So tick me off the list and I’ll pretend I never fucking met you. Good riddance.” He turned and strode out of the room.
No, no, no.
She stood for a moment, stricken, unable to speak, or think properly, or even take a decent breath. Those words whipped at her heart and carved deeper lacerations than they should. She tried to remind herself that it was all a misunderstanding, that this was what Dani would call him being triggered.
But her demons howled louder: He’s leaving you.
Once upon a time, Chloe had promised herself that she would never chase anyone who wanted to leave. She would never allow abandonment, desperation, love to make a fool of her. But her feet moved without permission, slowly at first, then faster, until she was stumbling over stray boxes and leaning against the walls for balance, righting herself with vicious determination. By the time she caught him, he was standing in the open doorway, his back to her. On the threshold.
Wasn’t this always how it ended?
But he didn’t move. He didn’t take the last step. His muscles were tense, as if frozen. He seemed to vibrate with something that might have been rage or regret or indecision.
Hope flared inside her, sharp and dangerous and impossible to resist. “Trust me. Just trust me.”
He didn’t turn around. “I don’t think I can.”
She clamped her molars together so hard, she swore she heard one crack. A lump of painful pride, acid and sawdust and heavy concrete, formed at the back of her throat. Chloe tried to swallow it and failed. She tried to believe he wouldn’t do this—wouldn’t walk out on her just like that, wouldn’t refuse to hear her out for even a second—and failed.
When she spoke again, her voice was panicked and fearful and she hated herself for it. No. No. She hated him for it, hated him for proving her every anxiety right. Surely he wouldn’t prove them right. “Red. Don’t.”
Silence. Silence that burned.
“If you can leave this easily,” she said, desperate, “don’t fucking come back.”
The slam of the door shook her bones.
She broke.
As soon as Red stepped out into the corridor, something forced his mind back into his body. For the last ten minutes he’d been distant, detached, floating above himself like a ghost. Watching himself lose it. Feeling the echo of his own pain as if it belonged to someone else. Now he felt it firsthand, as if God had just punched him in the gut.
The walls of Chloe’s flat had been slowly closing in, her beautiful, heartbroken gaze had suffocated him, but now he was out and free and drained and weak. He leaned back against her door, unable to take another step, and sank slowly to the floor. His world was a haze of bright white melting into blood red, but when he pressed his palms flat against the cold linoleum, the shock of it helped him focus. His mouth was numb, as if it belonged to someone else. His tongue tasted coppery, like blood. His skin was sweat-soaked and clammy and he hadn’t even noticed.
He was afraid. He realized it all at once, both surprised and resigned. He was afraid, and it made him angry, like a rabid fucking animal gnawing at its own trapped foot. But the thought was jarring, and he found himself frowning, correcting the negativity. I am not an animal. Then he said it aloud, because Dr. Maddox was always harping on about mindfulness and mantras. “I am not an animal,” he whispered, his voice disappearing like smoke. “I am not an animal.”