Page 91 of Brutal
Mimosa pulls her shirt on, and her expression remains as flat as ever. Of course it does. She doesn’t have a single fucking emotion inside of her.
She grabs the laptop again and puts it into a leather messenger bag, then she stops to look at me.
“Are you sure?” she asks, voice as toneless as always. “If you want me to leave, I’ll leave. If you want to talk, I can listen. But I’m not going to cater to your temper tantrum.”
Is it really a temper tantrum if I’m falling apart on the inside? I’m about to lose everything I worked for, and she’s treating me like I’m a child.
If she cared at all, she’d be showing something. Anything. But she doesn’t.
“I said, get the fuck out,” I snarl at her. “I don’t give a fuck about you, or what you do, or where you go.”
I care. I care so much. But if she stays any longer, she’s going to see me break down, and I can’t handle that in the face of her apathy.
Maybe if she at least hesitated, or tried to talk me down, or something…
But she doesn’t.
She really doesn’t care at all.
Why did I think she’d be any different from everyone else?
“Okay.” Mimosa hefts the leather bag and walks toward the elevator, stopping near the coat closet to put on a pair of brand-new sandals. She pushes the button, and after the elevator dings, she says, “Just remember later that you chose this. I’m—” Her voice catches, and for a split second, I think she’s going to show some kind of emotion. I will her to, to show me that she actually cares.
She doesn’t. Instead, she only pauses before she continues smoothly, “For a few days there, I thought we could have made it work.”
She steps into the elevator, the doors sliding shut behind her.
She’s wrong.
It never would’ve worked. No matter how much I wanted it to, she was just beyond me.
I scream, throwing the glass of whiskey, punching the fucking walls with my fists, letting myself break the fuck down now that I’m alone in my own condo — which has never felt more empty.
I stagger to the couch, burying my face in my hands, and for the first time in years, I realize just how fucking alone I am.
That’s never going to change.
Maybe it’s time to call Pavone up again, tell him I want someone broken enough to even pretend to care.
Or maybe it’s time to accept reality.
No one can love me.
No one.
CHAPTER 23
Mimosa
Well.
Fuck.
I step out of the building and immediately regret not grabbing at least a sweater before I left because it’s a lot cooler now than it had been earlier in the day. My legs are freezing.
At least I’ve got the laptop and the new wallet with his credit card in it. I’m sure he’ll cut off my access soon enough, but I manage to buy a coffee and load up a subway card.
While I wait for the train, I look at the subway map. I can’t go to the university, and my old room has probably been rented out again. I don’t really want to see my former roommates, and we weren’t close enough for me to want to spill my guts about why I disappeared without paying rent.