Page 192 of On a Fault Line

Collins moves into my living room and then to the wall of windows that overlook the city of Portland. I follow behind wordlessly, shuffling through memories that were made here in this building, and are now damaged with the realization that I no longer have a place in this man’s life.

“Say it,” I lash out.

“What do you want me to say, Pen? Huh?”

“Tell me that us making floor angels and you chasing me down to tickle me over taking pictures of you was just a misunderstanding. Tell me that you caring for me during the storm was just you doing your job. Tell me that us taking baths together at your place and fooling around on the terrace was just me forcing myself on you. Tell me… Tell me that I’m the”—I choke on my next word—“crazyone for believing in a figment of my imagination, conjured up in my own head from watching too many princess movies growing up.” I smack at his chest. “Tell me!”

Our eyes meet and I no longer see the man I thought I loved. Instead, reflected back in his callous expression, I see all of my flaws, insecurities, and weaknesses with vivid clarity. I’m not his girl. I’m not his anything.

And when this is all said and done, I’ll be a shell of who I was reinventing myself to be.

Tears cascade out of my eyes.

But Collins says nothing.

He does nothing.

He tries to save nothing.

The air between us is stifling, moving from slightly humid to borderline unbreathable.

We were created to break. This has always been the endgame, and I just refused to believe it.

It is in his seemingly uninterested gaze that my mind fractures, more now than when I was taken by Mark.

“I’m sorry,” he says stiffly, but his words hold no emotion.

My nose flares. “I’m sorry too. I’m sorry that I thought you were a man who would do everything to fight for me. I was wrong.”

“It’s for the best.”

“You are the worst kind of monster. You are the kind that stands tall behind a code of honor you live by, only to shatter the lives of anyone who goes against your narrative.”

I watch as he swallows and glances out at the river. But he says nothing.

“Look at me.”

And when he doesn’t, I jerk his shoulder to turn him.

“Look at me and remember this day. Because we will never come back from this.”

My hand flies forward with so much force, it is as if my entire life has saved up this aggression inside with the intent to release it in this very moment. The sound hits my ears first, followed by the searing pain radiating through my entire arm, and then ends with the look of shock in his solemn eyes.

Collins doesn’t even dodge the blow. Wiping at his cheek, he shifts his weight to his other foot. Blood spills from his reopened wound. “You hit me.”

“You fucking deserve worse, you bastard!”

I shove at him. And I pound my fists into his chest. And I scream out a sound that is foreign even to my own ears.

Then I back away, trying to get as much distance between us as I can.

I can’t look at him. So I keep walking.

But it’s in that silence that the realization hits me like a brick.

I’m going to be alone.

A sharp, burning sensation scratches at the back of my throat, working its way up to my mouth.

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