Page 9 of Endgame

5

DAKOTA

Who doeshe think he is?

He’s Callaway Hayes, that’s who.

I can answer my own question.

It still doesn't give him the right to boss me around and insert himself in my business. It’s like he has a hero complex or something.

He can stay in the car. I don’t need his help.

I’ve made it this far alone, and I’m perfectly capable of handling Trevor. No matter how cruel he can be at times.

I want to say the breakup between Trevor and I was a mutual thing, but it wasn’t. Trevor ended things with me; although he treated me poorly, I’m confident enough to admit thathedodged a bullet.

I’ve let my grief consume me to the point of losing myself this last year. I know I can only live like this for so long. Trevor eventually had enough of it—enough of me.

I was too blind to see what was right in front of me—someone who never truly loved me and left me like I meant nothing.

It seems I bring that out in people.

When we split, I was able to get most of my things out on my own, but with moving myself at the same time, I forgot to get the last few things I had left. I didn’t leave anything of major importance except for a filing crate that has the deed to my parents’ home in it. A home I refuse to visit until I’m positive I can handle it.

I wasn’t expecting Callaway to insist on bringing me here, or even giving me a ride, for that matter.

But I’m thankful.

Even though I don’t agree with his random urge of protectiveness over something he knows nothing about, I’m still thankful, nonetheless. The alternative would have been facing Trevor tomorrow and that sounds like actual hell.

I’ll take force with a side of care, please.

We pull up to the front of the swanky building. I take a second to pause and try to remember what it felt like living here for so long.

It looks more like a high rise for the elite rather than an apartment complex. The building aesthetics are jet black with gold doors, framing, and all accessories imaginable. Windows with a panoramic view and a balcony accessible off two ends accompany each individual apartment.

Luxurious is a mild term for this level of living.

Trevor comes from a long line of cutting edge doctors around Atlanta and is currently in his final year of residency before starting his fellowship. I wouldn’t say that his income warrants this degree of lavished fortune, though. It does have me curious about who pays the difference. I gave him what I could afford when I lived here, and he handled the rest.

The apartment is located in downtown Atlanta. It’s about the only thing I miss about this place—easy access to all my favorite restaurants and shops. The traffic is insane andrequires constant attention because these Georgia peaches refuse to believe in traffic laws.

Callaway pulls up to one of the few available parking spots for visitors outside the building and shuts the car off. He’s waiting for me to say something.

Deep breaths, Dakota, deep breaths.

With a deep sigh, I hear him open the car door and circle around the hood to meet me at mine. Is he going to help me out?

For some reason, I can’t get myself to make eye contact with him. I feel ashamed. Not that I did anything wrong, but I’m ashamed he was here to witness it all. The truck and the conversation with Trevor. He’s already helping me in a big way by giving me a ride and now this.

I’m embarrassed and doing everything not to show it.

The sound of my door opening forces my attention to where Callaway is standing, holding it open for me to step out.

He looks at me in question, “You good?”

No, I’m not. But I can be for the sake of not wanting you to dig any farther.

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