Page 192 of Never Die for a Sinner
“I’m sorry,” she says again, softer this time. As if maybe she knows I’m not just crying over him.
I’m crying because in the midst of it all, he’d helped me find myself.
Even if it was all a lie.
AVA
Day one, post-Levi, I wake up feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck—sore, achy, sick to my stomach from crying myself to sleep. My eyes are swollen, my throat is raw, and my pillow is still damp from last night. I drag myself to the bathroom and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It’s so jarring, I flinch. My skin is blotchy, my hair’s a tangled mess, and I barely recognize the person staring back at me.
It’s humiliating.
But it’s my fault.
I knew what this was. As if I could separate my heart from my body and be the girl who doesn’t get attached.
But then he started saying things that made me feel safe. Doing things that made me feel wanted. Like I mattered. And I let myself believe that I could be the exception.
It all happened so fast.
Falling for him.
Losing him.
There’s no one defining moment I can point to. No single kiss or touch pushed me over the edge. Instead, it’s a mosaic of moments—each one carving his name deeper into my heart.
It was the way he was with Gran, bringing her flowers and making jokes.
The way he held me in silence when she passed, letting me cry until I had nothing left in me.
The way he made me soup when I had the flu and how he’d cleaned me up when I’d had too much to drink.
The way we laughed. Really laughed. Shared stories about our pasts, confessed our secrets like we were the only two people in the world.
At least—I thought we both did.
Now I realize the secrets we shared were mine alone. His stayed hidden behind that carefully constructed wall of iciness and deflection.
By day two, post-Levi, I’m angry now. Tired. Emotionally drained.
Why did I let him lie to me? This entire time, he was using me, and I was too stupid to see the signs. And for my father, no less. A person heknowsI have always wondered about.
I’m staying at Mila and Christian’s place, under Mila’s strict orders, but it feels like I’m a ghost haunting someone else’s life.I move through the rooms without touching anything. I barely speak.
Christian keeps himself busy, probably because he doesn’t know what to say. Mila tiptoes around me like I’ll break if she looks at me too hard. Maybe she’s right.
The house is too quiet. I spend most nights staring at the ceiling, replaying everything over and over like some sick highlight reel.
Still, I can’t help it. I keep waiting.
Waiting for the sound of footsteps on the porch.
Waiting for the scent of whiskey and longing to wash over me.
Waiting like an idiot for Levi to show up and say he was wrong. That’s he’s sorry. That heneedsme.
Is that toxic? Delusional?
If it is, then he made me this way.
