Page 65 of Feel Me

He’s barely speaking to me. “We’re staying at your place?” I ask when he passes the road that leads to my apartment. It’s not a ridiculous question. By now, I’m not even sure he wants me in the same car as him.

“That’s what we planned,” he says, keeping his focus on the road.

This is the part where most women would start screaming, and maybe I should. But I’m so hurt right now the best I can do is not cry. My overnight bag and keys are at his place. I don’t want to fight with him. That doesn’t mean I’m spending the night seeing how he’s spent most of this one ignoring me.

We drive to his place in total quiet. When he parks in front of his apartment building I don’t wait to see if he’ll come to the door and open it for me like he always does. Mostly because I’m certain he won’t.

He slows his pace when he sees that I don’t wait for him and slip out of the car. I walk past him, standing in front of the double doors leading into the building, my focus burning a hole through the clear glass.

He doesn’t say anything, and I keep my attention ahead as he hits the security code into his building. I stiffen when he places his arm around my waist and leads me forward. It’s something he does whenever we arrive at his place after dinner out, or when I follow him home after work, those other times hedidn’tdisregard me.

This time, the way he holds me is different. I can feel it just as I can no longer excuse it. Not after everything I’ve risked for him.

Instead of allowing the contact and leaning into him, I step away and ahead.

“Mel?” he says.

I hit the button to the elevator. A few tenants he knows hurry in from the cold and rush into the lobby as I idly watch the numbers along the screen count down the floors, sparing me from having to formulate some kind of response. The large group piles into the elevator with us, two of them stepping off on the same floor as us.

The tension pushes us further apart. The moment he unlocks the door to his apartment and throws it open, I hurry in and into the bedroom, my eyes burning as I gather my toiletries from the bathroom.

Declan steps into the bedroom still wearing his coat, pausing when he sees what I’m doing. “You’re leaving?” he asks, his deep voice curt.

I don’t answer. Instead I carry out my small bag and shove it into my travel suitcase, my heels tapping against the wood floor as I storm out.

Heavy footsteps stomp behind me. I’m almost to the kitchen when Declan grabs the handle, keeping me in place. “What are you doing?” he asks.

It’s a standoff, me staring at the wall, his stare fixed on me, and neither of us budging from out spots. “Don’t go,” he bites out.

I whirl around. “Why did you invite me to Thanksgiving?” There are lots of questions I could ask, lots of things I can say, but this is the one I need to know.

He doesn’t answer, slipping his fingers from the handle of my suitcase just as I release it. It falls with a thump against the wood floor, causing something within it to break, not that I care.

The weight of what I’m feeling makes it hard to face him. I hate being so weak and vulnerable, but I’m not so weak that I’ll let him get off this easy. “Ididn’t have to be there,” I say. “But I did it for you, and for us, and all you did was embarrass me.”

He lifts his chin. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“But you did,” I remind him. “The way you ignored me, it’s as if you were trying to warn your family not to get too close, that you didn’t plan on keeping me around.”

He doesn’t deny it, and right now, that hurts more than anything he could have said. Tears roll down my cheeks. “If you don’t want me, just tell me. But don’t youdarestay with me because you think my father is dying, or because you feel sorry for me. I deserve better than that.”

I swipe my suitcase off the floor. There’s more to pack, but I don’t bother. He can keep it around for the next girl he brings to his bed. I hurry away, snagging my keys off the counter.

Declan tears down the hall. “Mel?Melissa.”

My heart sinks at the sound of his voice. I don’t stop, tears blurring the view of the front door. He slams it shut with his palm when I try to open it, his chest pressing hard against my back. “I’m sorry,” he says.

His breaths are ragged with what I can only determine is anger. I ram my eyes shut, trying to hold in the disappointment that’s been fighting its way out all night. He releases the door, his hand sliding down my arm and to my waist.

He bends to kiss my shoulder. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he says.

For a moment I don’t move. I hate to cry. It only shows those who hurt me exactly how deep my wounds go.

I gather my strength so I don’t break down sobbing. “Why did you?” I ask. He doesn’t answer. I turn around, needing to see his face. “I don’t understand what I did wrong.”

As much as his tone and words suggested his apology is sincere, his features are severe,angry. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he tells me. “If you want the truth, you’ve done everything right.”

My brow knits tight. I have no idea what he means. “I wanted to give us a try,” he continues. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, or wondering what it would be like to kiss you, to touch you. So I did. I just never expected to feel this way.”

---