Page 206 of Holding On To Good

He’d told her he loved her, right here in this room. Had admitted he’d been waiting for her.

She didn’t believe him.

Didn’t trust him.

And he’d be damned if he was going to let her rip his heart apart.

Not again.

Christ, but he’d been such a fool, wanting her here, in his house. A goddamn idiot to dream about having her in his bed.

Such an arrogant asshole thinking she’d be the only one to remember their time together. That it would sway her into wanting more of him.

That it would torment her, just a little, if she didn’t.

He was the one tormented. Tortured by the sight of his messy bed and the scent of her clinging to his sheets. Plagued by memories.

Torment he’d brought on himself.

Torture he probably deserved.

But it didn’t matter if he deserved it or not. Not with the alcohol fueling his anger. Not with his pain so sharp and fresh.

All that mattered was ridding himself of it. Of that pain. That anger.

Of the memories.

He stormed over and ripped the sheets from the bed. Tossed the pillows onto the floor. But it wasn’t enough. Wasn’t nearly enough.

The control that had given him the strength to get through the toughest times in his life snapped.

And he tore his room apart.

Swiped everything off his dresser. Chucked each item on the nightstand across the room. Threw the chair against the wall, breaking off a leg. Denting the drywall.

Then he yanked his mattress off his bed, carried it into the hall, his dog chasing after him, barking as if trying to get him to slow down. To take a breath.

To stop acting like a fucking madman.

Too late.

Sweating and huffing, he dragged the mattress down the stairs and through the living room. Panting and shaking, he hauled it onto the patio.

He wanted to douse it in gasoline and throw a lit match on it. Wanted to watch it burn. To let the flames destroy any last remnants of her scent. To burn away the memory of her.

But some small, still sober part of him warned him he wasn’t exactly in the best shape to be playing with fire so he stumbled back inside. Went directly to his couch where he picked up throw pillow after throw pillow. The two flimsier ones, he ripped apart with his bare hands, had Bella pouncing on the pieces to finish the job. The others, he whipped aside, one by one. One landed in the fireplace. Another hit the lamp in the corner, knocking the shade askew. The third took out the bottle of wine on the kitchen island with such force, it skid off and crashed to the floor.

It shattered, the glass splintering. Wine splattered—red dots peppering the wall, the table and chair legs. Pooled on the floor.

Bella jumped and ran for cover under one of the end tables but Urban couldn’t stop. He threw the framed family photos lining the mantle across the room. Knocked over the rocking chair. Upended the coffee table onto its side. Picked up the lamp from the end table and hurled it against the wall where he’d first made love to Willow.

He raged and roared and continued on with his rampage until there was nothing else to throw, nothing left to break. Then, sweating and panting and shaking uncontrollably, surrounded by the destruction he’d made, he slowly sank to his knees.

Goddamn it, he’d lost everything. Everything. His parents and his future. He’d had his choices taken away from him time and time again. And he’d withstood it. Had made the best of it.

But he was done. Fucking done holding his shit together while his life fell apart. Done accepting whatever life threw his way. Done accepting crumbs when he wanted the full meal.

He was done waiting for Willow. Done hoping she’ll take a chance on them. Done holding on to his dreams of her.

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