Page 100 of Sweet Escape

My head jerks back at his claim. “What the hell are you talking about? Of course I wanted to date you. I loved you. I shared my life with you.”

He shakes his head again, the move infuriating me.

“I’m not saying you didn’t love me. I loved you, too. But you didn’t share your life with me. You never got emotional with me, never shared your deepest fears or told me all your dark secrets.” He picks up the dry cleaning and hangs it over one arm. “And I didn’t, either. It was easier that way. But like I said, I may have played a part in this ending. But you did, too.”

Then his eyes drop to the Macallan in my hand.

“Keep it,” he says. “Have a nice life, Vi.”

And then he’s out the door, the soft snick of it closing behind him sounding like a loud boom with the way it echoes in my condo.

I stare at the bottle of whiskey in my hand for a long moment, suddenly having the urge to chuck it across the room, wanting to watch it shatter on the wall.

How dare he?

Howfuckingdare he?

I gently set the bottle on the counter in the kitchen and then storm out of my condo, nothing but my keys and phone in my hand.

The sky is fairly dark when I pull out onto the road outside my condo and onto PCH heading north, the highway that stretches from Orange County all the way up to somewhere in Northern California. Six-hundred-something miles of road.

Not that I want to drive six hundred miles, but late night on a Monday means Highway 1 is going to be mostly free of traffic and a great stretch for a mind-clearing drive.

I blast that stupid playlist that I found when I was in Rosewood, singing along to the songs I know and drumming along on the steering wheel.

I am enraged. Infuriated.

But as much as I try to drown my thoughts with music, they still manage to creep in. And eventually, I turn it down, roll down my windows, and give in.

Part of me is shocked at Theo’s allegations that I’m equally responsible for the demise of our relationship. He fucking cheated.He’sthe slimeball. And placing blame on me is a cheap way for him to get out of feeling responsible for what he did.

Okay so ... I know that to be true.

The problem is that I think there’s another truth in there as well.

One I don’t want to face.

But maybe one that I should.

Maybe he was right when he said I didn’t share my life with him.

Growing up in a home like mine, that was what I saw. That’s what I knew.

My parents didn’t talk about their emotions and their fears. They didn’t share with each other on a deep level. Hollywood is all about fake images, and that’s what they portrayed. The perfect face of a perfect family.

The only person who truly knows me is ... me.

And sometimes I wonder how well I actually do know myself.

Was I really not vulnerable with Theo?

I try to think back over our relationship. Three years of us dating and having sex and then moving in together at the end of last year. I mean, surely we were vulnerable about things with each other, right?

But try as I might, all I see when I look back are the same few things. Social outings with friends, semiregular sex, and maneuvering around each other in our home.

It’s heartbreaking.

And almost unbelievable.

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