Get a Life, Chloe Brown (The Brown Sisters #1)(90)

What came next? He told himself positive things, and he … he found something to focus on. That was it. Red chose the first thing his eyes fell on: the door to the flat opposite Chloe’s, which had a scuff mark he’d need to paint over. Yeah. He stared at the black mark against the red wood and repeated his words like a prayer. That door better not fucking open, because he was in no shape to talk to tenants right now. Or to anyone. He sat with himself for a while.

“Okay,” he finally murmured. “Okay, Red. What just happened?”

Chloe had manipulated him, that was what. She’d manipulated him just like Pippa had. Except the thought that had seemed so reasonable five minutes ago now felt absolutely ridiculous, because Chloe was nothing like Pippa. And he knew that belief was his own, because he’d thought it a thousand times before. This wasn’t like his last relationship. No one was messing with his head.

The iron band around his chest eased a bit.

He cradled his right hand in his left and rubbed his aching scar. His head ached, too. Words settled in his mind like barbed wire, ripping into everything they touched. I’ll pretend I never fucking met you. Good riddance.

He’d said that. It already felt like a dream, or a nightmare, but no—it had been him. The words had felt wrong in his mouth and they felt wrong in his memory. Then they swirled, twisted, transformed. He heard Chloe as if for the first time: I put you on the list because you’re important.

When she’d told him that, it had sounded like bullshit. Like the kind of nonsensical excuse Pippa always managed to dredge up, except Chloe wasn’t Pippa Chloe wasn’t Pippa Chloe wasn’t Pippa—and she’d told him it was a misunderstanding. Not like, You’re too stupid to understand, even if he’d heard it that way at the time. No; she’d been begging him to give her a fucking chance. She’d told him to wait. She might have told him the truth. And he’d left. He’d treated her like shit and he’d left.

He let his head fall back to hit the door. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Chloe?” he called, his voice hoarse, his hands twisting nervously together.

There was a pause that lasted a lifetime. Then her voice came through the door, thick with tears. “What do you want?”

His heart broke. It just fucking broke. How could he ever have thought that she would—? But he remembered exactly how. Remembered the desperate grip of panic that had choked his logical thoughts and dredged up remembered, toxic emotions. Now he just had to explain it to her, had to fix his monumental fuck-up.

Because whatever he’d overheard, whatever he’d believed, he knew Chloe wasn’t using him. He knew.

“Shit,” he said. Then, because it made him feel slightly better, he said it again. “Shit. I’m sorry, Button. I—I lost it.”

He heard some faint sniffing, but her voice came back stronger this time, threaded with iron. “I noticed.”

“Oh my God, Chlo. I’m a dick. I’m such a dick.”

“Yes, you fucking are.”

The fact that she was even talking to him filled him with hope. Golden and glowing, it sloshed uneasily in his stomach, mixing with the bitter aftertaste of his fear. He felt nauseous. Ignored it. “Can I come in? Can we talk?”

Her answer was immediate. “No.”

He wasn’t surprised. He remembered, vividly, what she’d said to him, muffled beneath the ringing in his ears. If you can leave this easily, don’t fucking come back. He could tell her the truth—that it hadn’t been easy at all, that it had been his only option, that he’d wanted to turn around and touch her but he’d been so fucking afraid—only he didn’t think that would fix things. Because as far as Chloe was concerned, he’d just left.

The full impact of that fact hit him hard enough to rattle his teeth. He’d left.

“Chloe,” he said, the word shaking with all his desperation, all his regret. He closed his eyes and threaded his hands through his hair. “I don’t know what happened. No, I do. I fucked up, and I’m sorry. I panicked and I couldn’t think but—”

“I know,” she said, interrupting him. For a second, his heart gave a tentative little hop. But then she continued. “I know, Red. I understand. I really do. But … but I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

Just like that, he truly understood the word devastation. He was the earth after a monumental asteroid, knocked off his axis, burned and choked and twisted into a wasteland. “Chloe, no. Please. I’m trying—”

“It’s not because of you,” she said firmly. Which couldn’t possibly be right, only … only, she sounded so sure. So calm. So in control, as if the tears he’d heard a moment ago had been imaginary. “It’s me,” she said. “I can’t do this. Because we’re only human, and I’ll stumble, or you will, and it’ll hurt just like this, and I can’t. I can’t. I should’ve known I wasn’t ready for this. When you walked out …” She sucked in a breath so hard, he actually heard it. That breath painted a picture for him: Chloe, her lovely face streaked with tears he’d caused, her soft mouth rolled into a hard line to stop herself from sobbing. The thought caused him actual, physical pain. His hands ached, not because of his scar but because they needed to touch her.

But she didn’t want his touch anymore.