Page 69 of Uncontrolled

I wonder what she’ll do if she sees me.

And then, as if the universe throws me a bone, I spot her.

She moves down the stairs and follows the path through the roses to the street. She’s close enough to see me lurking, but she doesn’t, slumped under the weight of a duffle bag. From the way she’s dressed, the yoga shorts and tennis shoes, she’s headed to that gym.

Her expression is indifferent, as if this is any other day to her, as if last night never happened.

What if she’s taking off?

None of this matters, I remind myself. It’s not like I’m supposed to take some perverse comfort in the fact that she’s in the same city as me.

Once she’s gone, I cross the street and climb the stairs, feeling criminal. But criminals don’t have keys. I put mine in the lock, open the door, and then I’m inside Allie’s apartment.

It’s wrong to be here. Things have changed. I’m not wanted.

My pack is exactly where I left it, leaned against the armrest of the couch. Get it, get out, I think, before she comes back.

Shrugging the pack on, I buckle the hip belt and turn. This is the last time I’ll ever be in this apartment.

There’s a fiery rush through my insides. In my hand, the key is warm between my tightly clutched fingers. I’m not sure why I tiptoe as I make my way to the kitchen. If Allie had a bag packed, there’s a possibility she’ll never be back. In the dish rack are the two mugs we dirtied yesterday morning. The coffee maker sits unused.

It’s a tiny, inconsequential thing—the coffee maker. She’s off her routine. Maybe it means something. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything.

My toes flex in my shoes as I lean forward and rise onto the balls of my feet. I bounce twice.

She can take care of herself. She doesn’t need you. She never needed you. She’s better off without you. The thought curls around my brain like smoke, bitter and black and suddenly, I can’t breathe.

I need her.

No. What I need is a clean break. She wants this over. She made it abundantly clear without the added message of a blade between my ribs.

In my head, Jamison’s laughing in his satisfied I-told-you-so tone, that syrupy accent of his. Of course you screwed it up. How did you expect this to go?

Wrapping my arms around myself, a shiver rolls through me despite the heat.

Everyone’s worse off when you come into the picture. Coward, Jamison chirps.

From some dark nook inside myself, a thought rises like an air bubble through tar. What she said last night, about wishing Talia had shot me in the cellar, she said it to hurt me. She wanted to hurt me. I survey the kitchen. I could hurt her.

Inside me are angry ghosts, waiting while I decide who I am.

An eternity passes in the few seconds I take to make my decision. When I come to, I’m standing by the end table, folding a note. I open my palm and set down what I’m holding.

I force a breath. The apartment is stuffy with no fans running, the faintest scent of apples tinging the air. I should want to be sorry. I should want to make apologies and promises. I don’t.

She’s the one who was wrong. She’s the one… The thought trails off. I don’t want her forgiveness. With a final knock of my knuckles against the table, I head for the door.

“Her loss,” I say, vicious enough to shut up even Jamison’s ghost for once.

Allie

I stare at the armrest of the couch. When I left for the gym, Christopher’s pack leaned against it. Now, it’s gone.

“Hello?” I call into the apartment.

On the end table, I can see a folded-up piece of paper, the house key I made him two weeks ago abandoned beside it. The door was locked when I came in, but the deadbolt wasn’t engaged, so he’s already come and gone. A weary sigh breaks from me as I force myself forward.

I guess I should feel violated. Instead, I’m just sad. My fingertip taps once against the key. Then, all in one motion, I snap up the letter, unfold it, and read.

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