Page 110 of Stricken

Pause. Then again.

Bzz. Bzz.

I reach for the phone, squinting at the screen.

My thumb hovers over the answer button. Wavers.

I let it ring out. Drop the phone back on the nightstand like it's burning me.

It lights up again, mocking.

I turn away, pressing my face into the pillow.

Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.

Fucker is stubborn. Now he wants to talk. Well, that's just great. Because I don't.

What I do want is to hurl the phone across the room, shatter it into silence.

Instead, I lie there. Letting it ring.

Punishing myself. Punishing him.

Four calls. Five. Six.

Each one a question, an accusation, a plea.

And each one ignored, unanswered.

I close my eyes, breathing in the stale hotel air. Trying to clear my mind of gray eyes and cruel words.

But they linger, caustic.

The phone finally quiets and the sudden absence of noise is a gaping void.

I feel... adrift. Anchorless.

But beneath it all, the anger still simmers.

The voicemail icon winks when I finally muster the courage to check my phone.

I press play before I can second-guess myself. Glutton for punishment.

Vlad's voice, smooth and emotionless, fills the room from the speaker. "Nico. Come on. Let's forget about what happened yesterday. Move on. We were both in a bad mood."

Clipped and dispassionate words again like he's discussing the weather, not the reasons for the argument between us. The reasons he never gave me. I don't know what set him off.

Fury ignites in my blood. How dare he dismiss it so casually? Reduce us to a mere footnote. And him offending me to an inconvenience to be forgotten?

I grip the phone until my knuckles blanch.

He wants to forget? Fine. Two can play that game.

I stab at the screen, deleting the voicemail with a vicious swipe. Erasing him, just like he erased us.

But the anger remains, an insidious companion. It rolls in my gut, tightens my chest.

I want an apology. A recognition of the hurt he's inflicted. But I know better than to expect one.

---