Page 75 of Miss Understood

Luce nods her head, and it shakes a glassy look over her eyes. But she rolls her shoulders back and faces me with cold composure.

Because Lucille Stevens doesn’t break down for anyone.

Especially a man.

Not even for me.

“I’m sorry.” It sounds pathetic when I say it.

“Me too.”

Luce turns toward the bedroom, probably to gather her things, or maybe just to get changed. I don’t wait to find out. Because if I stay in this apartment one second longer, I’ll pin her down and tell her I was wrong about everything. That she can have whatever she wants. That I want her to stay.

I’ll lie to us both and tell her that I won’t destroy her.

Shrugging on my jacket, I head for the door instead. Luce is more than just a body to keep a man warm—she’s the fucking fire, the morning, the light.

And I don’t deserve to keep her if it means I’ll temper even a flicker of her flame.

27

Luce

Myapartmentnolongerfeels like home, and I have a sinking feeling it has nothing to do with the space or the things that fill it.

It’s Jesse. He’s missing.

God, what is this awful ache in my chest?

Is this what I’ve been avoiding all these years?

Because if that’s the case, I should have kept it that way. At least when I was alone that was all I knew. There was nothing to miss. Right now, I’m not sure I’ve ever actually missed anything before, with the exception of my mom. The pit of my stomach aches in ways I didn’t know possible.

I wake up and reach for him.

I go to sleep remembering his warmth behind me.

I smell his spicy aftershave on my clothes.

I’m a pathetic mess. One of those women I always looked down on. Wondering how they fell for it, how they thought they were any different.

Howhewas any different.

The blank space beside me knows the truth. That I was right all along.

I spend half my time blaming myself and the other half hating him. I make checklists in my head, trying to figure out who messed it up. Every draft comes up different. After all, I might have been the one who walked away, but he didn’t try to stop me.

How had I let it come to that? I’m not the girl who wants a man to fight for her and prove her wrong. And he didn’t. So, why am I disappointed?

Jesse stood in front of me as I bared it all. I asked him to give us a chance, to support what I had to do in order to be in our relationship. And he stood there deflated. Let that look on his face say more than his mouth did. He refused to hear that I was leaving the firm for him, not because of it. I chose him, but he didn’t choose me in return.

That’s the problem with relationships. You can wish and will the other person to do and say all the right things, but at the end of the day, they are their own person, and you can’t actually control them.

Lesson learned.

I’ll hide in my bed and deal with the fact that there is apparently no getting over the heartache hangover that is Jesse Davis. No matter how many pillows I fill the other side of my bed with, no matter how much Ben & Jerry’s I swallow, it’s not enough.

That Jesse-shaped hole calls out.

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