Page 42 of Bitter Truths

With Miranda.

Fuck me, but the hits just keep coming, and I thought I liked the bitch.

She turns her head away from me as Griffin’s head swings around, but I don’t wait around for the cruel smile or even the bored gaze. Instead, I follow Aaron, gasping for air when we reach the doors.

“Hals, was that . . .?”

Nodding, I look away, willing back the rage that consumes me.

Are they fucking? Of course, they are.

“Do you think they’re together?”

Glancing at him, I shrug. More than likely, yes. It’s his M.O.. And haven’t I fallen for it enough?

Did Griffin even grieve over me? Did he feel my pain? Shit, fuck, damn. I don’t even know how to process what I just saw. But why am I surprised?

He fucks chicks without a care for the broken hearts he leaves in his wake, including mine.

I drop into silence, and Aaron carries the conversation until we get home, turning the topic to my relief. Immediately, I lock myself in the bathroom to regroup. And staring at my pathetic reflection, I replay my whole sordid life with Griffin.

Is he a world-class liar? Or am I a fool? Maybe I truly pushed him away. I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter now.

I wanted revenge. I wanted him to be as messed up as I am. I’m not sure he cares either way while I’m staring at the wall and wondering where this all went wrong.

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing there, completely out of it, but I start when Aaron says my name through the door before opening it to see concern written all over his face.

“Hals—” he starts, but we both turn when someone knocks on the door, and I take the opportunity to escape to my room, leaving him to answer it.

I’m just pulling on sweats when my door opens, and my heart thumps to find Griffin standing on the other side. We stare at each other silently until he breaks the moment by moving inside my room and closing the door behind him.

Turning away because I can’t look in his face, not now, not ever, I wrap my arms around my middle to stave off the inevitable pain, but it roars through me like a freight train anyway.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He threw me away again, and it doesn’t fucking matter that I did it first this time. How can he possibly say I’m the one when he’s already moved on? He can’t. It’s all a fucking lie.

“What’s going on? What happened at the party?” he asks gruffly.

“Where’s Miranda?” I utter with a sneer.

“At home, if I had to guess.”

“Whatever.” I stare at the wall because it’s too painful to look at him.

Does he know he’s ripped my heart out of my chest again? Or maybe he doesn’t fucking care because he’s already with the next girl in line.

“Hals . . . tell me what you want. You want me to fucking grovel, fine. You want me to hate myself? Done. You want to punish me by fucking David Jackson? Mission accomplished.”

Sighing, I hang my head, my fingertips tingling with an emotion I have no outlet for. Shit, even painting, my solace, no longer brings me peace, although the images are ugly and dark, just like me, anyway.

“I didn’t fuck David. Can you say the same?”

There’s a pregnant pause into which I laugh bitterly. “Of course, you can’t.”

“I didn’t fuck Miranda. I don’t care about her, but what am I supposed to do when you won’t fucking talk to me?” he says icily.

“Hurt like I do,” I scream, swinging toward him and slapping his face.

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