Page 73 of Your Place or Mine

My arm ached. My neck was stiff. My stomach was twisting with the kind of hollow, acidic feeling that usually meant I’d skipped dinner without realizing it.

But I didn’t stop.

Couldn’t.

If I stopped, I’d start thinking.

And I knew exactly where my thoughts would go.

Back to him.

The way he kissed me like he’d been starving for it. The way his hand had slid into my hair like he needed something to hold on to.

The way he’d looked at me afterward… like I was a problem he couldn’t solve.

And the words.

God.Those words.

"I don’t know how to want you without resenting you for it."

I’d replayed them repeatedly in my head, trying to decide if I’d heard wrong or if there was some deeper meaning I’d missed.

But no. He’d said it. Clear as day. As if wanting me and hating the way I’d changed his life were somehow inextricably linked.

Like, my very existence here was the problem.

Like, I was the problem.

I pressed the roller harder into the wall, catching the edge of the trim, paint dripping where it wasn’t supposed to. I didn’t care. The brush had long since been abandoned. I was working angrily now. And sad. And furious at myself for being surprised.

I should’ve known better.

Men like Callum didn’t open doors, not really. They kept everything locked up and guarded, and when you finally slipped inside, they slammed the door shut behind you and pretended they hadn’t asked you to come in the first place.

I exhaled and stepped back, hand on my hip, staring at the half-finished wall.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

Melanie would’ve had music playing by now. Something upbeat. She would’ve cracked a joke about my posture or started singing a parody version of a Taylor Swift song until I laughed.

But she was gone.

And I was alone.

The quiet sank in like a weight, and with it came a sharp, stabbing realization that had nothing to do with Callum.

I missed my mom.

I missed her so much I couldn’t breathe.

It hit me hard and suddenly, like grief had been circling all day, just waiting for the right moment to lunge and attack.

I sank to the floor, legs folding beneath me like I was made of straw. The paint roller clattered onto the drop cloth beside me, and I just felt…broken.

A shell of a person with no way to fill the void of what I’d lost.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whispered.

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