Page 71 of It's Not All Fake

She turns to face me, still walking backward in the sand. “Prove it,” she challenges firmly, then turns back around, continuing her march away.

I’m left standing on the dark beach, wondering if Ashley’s right. Am I an asshole for making this arrangement with Chloe—for fucking with her head? Is Chloe giving me a hint by bailing tonight?

But every look between us, every touch, every feeling tells me this is right. She’s messed with my head just as much as I may have messed with hers. I never expected real feelings.

It’s not all fake, that’s for damn sure. There’s no way I’m the bad guy here.

And I’ll prove it.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHLOE

“Thank you, officer,” I say, my voice sounding small.

The female cop nods. “Lock this after us,” she instructs before exiting with her partner.

I close the door behind them and slide the deadbolt into place. The neighbor called the police with the commotion. I’m glad they did because Lucas had cut off my 911 call too soon.

Now, the apartment is eerily silent. A dull ache throbs on the side of my face as I make my way to the bathroom. Flicking on the light, I’m taken aback by my reflection. The gash near my temple, about two inches long, has stopped bleeding but dried blood smears my cheek. The area is already swollen and beginning to bruise. The edge of the coffee table was unforgiving.

I can’t believe it escalated to this. He pushed me—then fled the scene. He didn’t even bother to make sure I was okay. But what did I expect? He’s a bad guy. I know that now more than ever. The police even issued me an emergency protection order. It’s just a piece of paper, but it’s something.

I turn the faucet on and splash my face, watching as the water turns pink and swirls down the drain. The cold water numbs the pain for a moment, but I can’t shake the feeling of shame that washes over me.

It’s why, before the police showed up, I texted Ashley and Liam that I wasn’t feeling well—a cop-out. I found my phone floating in the kitchen sink filled with the soapy water that I forgot to drain earlier. Lucas threw it there, probably after trying to wipe the debt collector contact information from my phone.

But my laptop was still intact. So, in a last-minute attempt to cancel our plans, I quickly messaged Liam and Ashley right before the police showed up at my door.

I dry my face with a towel and notice a smudge of blood on the turquoise fabric. Fuck. More mess to clean up. I must have re-opened the wound while washing it. I see the fresh glistening blood in the cut when I look in the mirror.

I watch as my expression in the mirror contorts, tears flooding my eyes, and my vision blurring.

How did I get here?

I fucking opened the door, my rational mind tells me. I’d be gone in the first act if this was a horror movie—it was the moment the audience was screaming for me not to do it, and I did it anyway. I let the bad man in.

Now, I clutch the bathroom sink, trying to steady myself.

It’s not my fault, I tell myself. All my clients who are victims of abuse—I tell them the same thing. They’re not to blame. They’re caught up in it, but they’re not responsible for the abuser’s actions.

I know it’s true. But it doesn’t feel any less shitty. And how can I continue as a life coach when my life is unraveling?

A knock at the front door interrupts my thoughts and my body tenses up. What if it’s Lucas again?

I can barely hear anything over the pounding of my heart in my ears.

“Chloe, it’s Liam,” he calls out, his voice filled with concern.

I feel a rush of relief, but also hesitation. Part of me wants to throw open the door and run into his arms, seeking comfort and security. But another part of me doesn't want him to see me like this. I've made such a huge mistake letting Lucas in, and now he'll know about it and worry. And it's my problem to deal with.

But I can’t leave him waiting outside either. He knocks again. “Chloe, are you okay?”

I quickly try to fix my hair, which is up in a smooshed, lopsided ponytail with pieces falling out everywhere after the tussle with Lucas. I pull out the hair band and let my hair fall around my face, obscuring part of my injury.

I don’t want Liam to see this—it’ll be triggering for him, I’m sure. His mother was battered, and now here I am looking like a complete mess. My mind even goes so far as to consider dabbing some concealer on the bruises, but I quickly dismiss the idea. I’m not going to hide what happened. I owe Liam—and myself—more than that.

I steel myself and open the door. Liam’s face falls when he sees me.

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