Page 10 of Indirect Attack
“Fine. You were just a placeholder anyway. I’m already banging your friend, Stacie.”
As Greg stalked back inside, shock rooted me to the spot. But it was short-lived—I was somehow not surprised, and I wasn’t even sad about our relationship ending. I even felt relief as hestomped back out, his game system in his arms, leaving nothing but a final glare before slamming his car door shut.
I ran back inside and threw my room apart, looking for my phone. I finally found it under the sweatshirt I’d thrown haphazardly onto the bed. My hands shaking, my breath coming in short gasps, I hit Ben’s number, and the phone began to ring.
But it went to voicemail.
Just as it did the other five times I called.
“Oh, come on,” I growled to Ben, who couldn’t hear me, tears stinging my eyes. “Just give me a chance to explain, okay?”
But he didn’t pick up, and when I texted him the same words, no three dots blinked in response.
I threw the phone onto the bed with an angry shout and followed it, collapsing onto the mattress and letting my head fall into my hands. Anger and desperation formed a tight ball in the center of my chest, and I squeezed my eyes shut against the hot tears.
“Please, please just pick up,” I begged, my words stifled by the clenched hands I’d pressed painfully against them.
Don’t let this be the way this ends.
Chapter 5
Ben
FROM THE CORNER OFmy eye, I saw my phone screen light up again. But I ignored it, my gaze trained on the hands I had clasped in my lap.
Downstairs, I could hear the sounds of home: pots clanging, silverware and plates clinking, the low murmur of my parents talking. Or, rather, my mom speaking while my father grunted in response. The dog barked at something in the front yard, and the birds made a raucous morning chorus in the trees.
Everything sounded normal, which made the situation that much more surreal. When you felt this broken, wasn’t the world supposed to stop with your heart? How could time go on when my own life lay shattered around me?
Yeah. That’s my girlfriend.
The words wouldn’t stop ringing in my head, turning around and around until the sound was nearly as strident as the birds.
Who was that guy, anyway? Jasmine hadn’t mentioned him once during any of our conversations. Not that I’d had many with her over the past few years. But he’d come out of her apartment, and his posture had been confident, assured. And he couldn’t even be bothered to call her “she.”Thatis my girlfriend—who talked about someone they loved like that?
I wasn’t mad at Jasmine, though. How could I be? If anything, I was angry at myself. I should have known someone as beautiful and sweet as Jasmine wouldn’t wait around for me. I should have known someone else would see her for the incredible woman she was and scoop her up.
Even if that guy seemed like a jerk.
Then again, why wouldn’t he have acted like a jerk? Even if I hadn’t said anything, he’d known why I was there. Just as I’d seen the truth of his words in his body language, I was sure the same could have been said about me. His posture had been defensive and possessive, even slightly aggressive, but I’d been edging on his territory, and he’d had every right to act that way.
Hell, I would have done the same if I had any claim to Jasmine’s heart.
Which I should have, but I’d been an idiot. I’d been too frightened, too much of a kid, to realize that Jasmine couldn’t know what was in my heart if I didn’t tell her. The entire drive back home to Maryland, I’d been cursing myself for not saying anything sooner, for expecting her to be there when I got back, no matter what. It wasn’t fair to her, and I couldn’t get angry at her now, even if I wished I could.
I wanted to be angry. I wanted to lash out. I wanted to get rid of this burning ball of icy pain in the center of my chest that wouldn’t go away, wouldn’t let me breathe, wouldn’t give me any relief. I knew the feeling was angry regret—regret for not telling her how I felt, for creating expectations that could never be met, for believing she would wait for me when I had explicitly told her not to. I hadn’t given her an ounce of a reason not to believe me, to have some hope that I would want something more someday.
I hadn’t even had hope, not really. I’d believed my story for too long, that I didn’t want her waiting at home for someone who might never return. I’d genuinely wanted her to go on with her life, seek her dreams without the burden of loving someone whowas never there, and feel the constant worry that turned into sleepless nights and listless days.
But despite that, my heart had never let her go. I’d wanted to and tried to for her sake and mine. I’d told myself it could never work out, reminding myself of my brothers’ heartbreak with long-distance relationships. I’d reminded myself that neither of us needed that kind of pain.
And yet, during the darkest days and the most harrowing moments, Jasmine had been the one thing that had gotten me through. When I’d crouched behind a Humvee overturned in an explosion that had killed several of my fellow Marines, shrapnel flying everywhere from the bullets raining overhead, her face had been the one I’d seen. When I couldn’t sleep at night from the nightmares, when my friends’ faces and mangled bodies had haunted me even when I was awake, I’d drown myself in dreams of our future together.
In the darkest hours of the night, I’d imagined returning to her, the way she’d run into my arms, the way she’d feel as I held her. I’d imagined a wedding and the old farmhouse we’d buy, not too far from our parents, the chickens and goats and dogs, and even the cow we’d have. We would find a place where I could work with my hands with an art studio in the loft of the barn.
But it had been stupid—a stupid, naïve mistake.
Something pressed against my thigh, hard, insistent, and painful, and I reached into my pocket and pulled out the velvet box. I stared down at it, my fingers curling around the rounded sides until I had to take a deep breath and relax my hand before I crushed it.
