Make You Miss Me by B. Celeste
PROLOGUE
BEFORE
The scratchiness of short blond stubble against my palm leaves the dread in my chest that much heavier as I avoid looking into the deep blue eyes set on my face. My hand falls from the squared jaw down to the toned pectorals covered by a wrinkle free uniform that shows off the body sculpted by determination that I’ve spent a long time admiring. Under my shaky palm is a thumpingheartbeat I used to love drifting off to sleep listening to every night since I was nineteen.
People say the eyes speak a thousand words—that they’re the window to your soul. And his are pure good, full of the admiration that I’ve grown attached to since the day we met. The words they silently spoke in the past told me everything I’d ever wanted to hear with a single look.
Which is why this moment crushes the splintered pieces of my heart that I’ve barely mended together since the first argument we’d shared which was quickly followed by a second, third, and fourth one. Those broken pieces grew bigger, deeper, slicing into the beating organ for him not trying even a fraction as much as I did to make this work.
Given up on.
Wasted.
Unwanted.
Suppose I had a tattoo for every time a fragment of my heart was taken from me by something somebody said that made me feel unworthy. Every negative word in the dictionary would cover me—permanently mark me with reminders of time wasted on people who I should have never trusted to begin with.
“One day,” I tell him, choking down the hoarseness of my voice and reaching up to cup the face I’ve loved touching for years, “I’m going to find someone who loves and admires me like you do.”
Throat bobbing, I let my palm slide off his face, the one that people always say looks like it belongs to the love child of young George Clooney and Pierce Brosnan. Taking a deep breath, I wiggle the cold piece of gold off my finger that no longer holds any weight or warmth since the day a strange man showed up to the house we’d shared and handed me papers that would change my life forever.
“Except they’re actually going to mean it,” I whisper.
If I were stronger, I’d tell him that he’d regret his choice. I’d hold my head up high, look him straight in the eyes, and say, “I’ll make you miss me, Hunter Cross.”
But I’m not strong.
I pass him the ring, then take a step back.
Then another.
His lips part…
But he says nothing. He doesn’t fight or apologize or beg me to stay the way I’m silently praying he will, and I should know then and there that this was nothing like I thought it was.
I don’t let the tears free until I’m far away from the man who looks far too good in his green uniform, knowing this is better for both of us.
One day, I’ll even believe it.