Page 100 of Bad For Me (Rock Canyon, Idaho 5)

Only he’d popped that bubble.

“You can’t fix me. I don’t try to fix you. Why can’t you just let things be?”

The laugh he released was bitter and harsh. “Because I finally realized that you may love me, but you’re not with me, not wholly. I can give you time, but I can’t just sit around waiting for you to let me in. The minute I first heard your voice over the radio, I knew you were special and that you should be mine.”

Everett walked over to her and cupped her face. She hated the sadness in his eyes, eyes that usually sparkled and shone.

“But if you can’t give me all of you, then I can’t do this.”

He dropped his hand and turned away, heading toward the door. Callie’s throat constricted as she realized this was it. She could either divulge everything she’d buried, everything that had contributed to her fucked-up state of mind.

Or she could let him walk away.

“They’re just letters!” she yelled at his retreating back. “Everett!”

He stopped without turning around.

“Please, don’t do this.” She was trembling with desperation and searching for something, anything, that would get through to him. She just needed more time.

“I love you.”

Everett came back toward her, and she almost sank to her knees with relief. As he kissed her roughly, she tried to pull him closer, to deepen the kiss, but he pulled away too soon.

Instead, he just stared down at her with sorrow lingering in his eyes. “I love you too.”

And then he was gone.

Sliding to the ground, Callie gathered her knees to her chest and sobbed. Ratchet came out of the bedroom and sat beside her, whimpering. Wrapping her arms around his neck, Callie wailed into his dense fur. Everett had thrown down an ultimatum she didn’t know if she could handle and walked out the door.

Taking her joy with him.

CALLIE GRABBED ANOTHER package of instant noodles, not caring that though it was only seventeen cents, that it was packed with preservatives. She needed salt and comfort food.

Pushing her grocery cart past the wine aisle, she kept her head straight, refusing to look. She was just miserable enough to consider giving into oblivion. Fuck the hangover and her sobriety chip.

After unloading her cart onto the belt, she zoned out during the cashier’s inane attempt at conversation and handed her card over. It was like she was in a dream. The rest of the world blurred around the edges, dulled by her misery.

Taking her card back from the cashier’s outstretched hand, she walked out of the store. After loading up her groceries, she drove home, her brain bogged down with a million creative ways to see Everett. But the simplest way to prove her love was also the hardest.

Just thinking about Tristan brought to the surface a colorful array of negative emotions: hate, self-loathing, rage, fear. She’d been a blank mask for so long that when her old self began to emerge with Gemma, Caroline, and later Everett, she’d wanted to keep the rest of it at bay. If she talked about it, if she told him everything, it would be like reliving the nightmare all over again. She just wanted to move on and leave it where it was—in the past.

If that’s true, and you’re fine, then why did you keep the letters?

Callie’s pity party continued well into the evening, after she’d devoured two packs of instant noodles and felt like her entire stomach was going to come back up. Sitting on the couch with a Sprite, her gaze kept shifting to the drawer of letters.

Ratchet was sitting on her foot, leaning against her leg. Scratching her dog’s big floppy ear, she asked, “What would you do, huh?”

The dog moved away from her and wandered into the bedroom. Leaning back against the couch, Callie closed her eyes, willing her mind to be quiet.

A moment later, Ratchet was back, burying his head in her lap. She opened her eyes. In his mouth was the shirt from Everett’s zombie costume, covered in slime and fake blood. It was disgusting an

d now soaked with dog slobber.

Still, holding up the dry side to her face, she could smell Everett on the cotton, and her eyes prickled. “Damn it, Ratchet.”

The dog’s tail thumped against the floor as she got up and opened the drawer, pulling every letter out and sorting them by date. She’d received the first letter a little over six months after Tristan had been sentenced, when he was sitting in a state mental hospital.

As she took the first letter and opened the seal, she realized her hands were trembling. She never understood why Tristan had begun writing her after everything that had happened, but the answer to why was right here in her hand.

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