Page 57 of Pulled Away

“Hello to you, too.”

“You didn’t join us for basketball last night.”

I shrug because I don’t give a shit. It’s hard to care about things when you’ve lost the thing you care about the most. Everything pales compared to that.

“If I knew you were wallowing, I would have brought some ice cream. And chocolate. We could put on a chick flick and sob on each other’s shoulder.”

“Fuck off, Carter.” Usually, I appreciate his humor, but not now.

“So why are you wallowing?”

The look I give him screams, are you for real? He knows what’s going on. By now, the news of our breakup has traveled far and wide.

“I don’t even know where she’s staying.”

And it makes me feel like a piece of shit. I’m fully aware of her financial situation, and I blame myself. Not only did I promise her a home when I asked her to move in with me, I actively encouraged her to invest her savings into the rescue, along with whatever she had to spare every month.

“You don’t need to worry about her. She’s taken care of.”

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me, but it’s not helping,” I mutter, shooting him a look. Not so long ago, I knew everything about her. Now I know nothing.

He tilts his head, searching my face. “She’s staying with me.”

I sit up straight, turning to him. “What?”

He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “She needed a place, and I offered.”

A million different emotions surge through me as I stare at him. It hurts, knowing she’s with him and not me, but I’m thankful that at least she has somewhere to stay. Although, Carter wouldn’t have been my first pick. He’s a player and finds many willing tourists to keep him company at night. I don’t want her to be uncomfortable.

But he’s my friend, and I trust him.

“No need to give me that look. She’s safe from me. She’s not the hookup type. If she was, I might have considered it, but you got to her first, and I don’t care to stick my dick where my friends have been. So…”

“Shut the fuck up,” I growl. “Don’t speak about her that way.” I want to punch that fucking smirk right off his face. But…at least now I know where she’s staying.

“How is she?”

“How do you think she is? Coping.”

An idea starts forming in my head. It’s been a week. Maybe it’s been long enough for her to cool down. Maybe she’ll be more open to what I have to say.

Feeling like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders, I get up, looking around for my keys. I haven’t left my house in days and I’m not sure where I left them.

“Where are you going? I just got here,” he gripes.

“I’m going to try to talk to her.” Again.

He sighs, throwing his arm over the back of the couch.

“Relax, bro. She’s not there. And even if she was, she wouldn’t want you to see you.”

“Where is she?” I demand.

“At work.”

“Bullshit. The clinic closes at six.”

“Not that job. Her other job.”

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