I don’t blame them. I wish I could help it but I just can’t anymore. I’ve come to a point in life where I just don’t care.

I don’t want to care.

Caring and loving too hard will kill you.

It will leave you ripped wide open, and no one will be able to mend you. No one at all, no matter how hard they try.

I can tell my guy is trying to do that, but he has to learn that I don’t want his help. I don’t want him to care. And even if I did, this situation we’re in would be pointless because he can’t have me. Ever.

“I’ll see you again soon,” I say, swinging the door open.

“Yeah. I guess.” His head barely nods, a hand now on his hip as he watches the door shut behind me. I rush down the hallway, hoping he doesn’t change his mind and try and get me to stay. I’m not in the mood for conflict or puppy-dog eyes.

My head is hurting, my mouth feels dry, and I need to soak in my Jacuzzi tub because I’m feeling way too sensitive in the most delicate area of my body.

I make it to my car and start it, and when I check my phone I see that there are missed calls from Mom and Beth, my sister, but none from Griffin, whom, for some reason, I expected to get a call from.

Even if I’ve been a complete bitch, he usually gets over it and calls to check in. But not today. Maybe he found a flight and is at home waiting for me.

I drive home quickly, expecting his car in the garage but it isn’t. He’s still not here, and I can’t deny the disappointment sweeping through me.

Whatever.

I make it up to my bedroom after avoiding Arianna’s inquisitive eyes, take a lengthy shower, and then I’m out, going downstairs to grab a banana, and then entering my study.

I gather my art supplies, adjust my easel, and get right to painting as I eat my piece of fruit. I get to it to distract my mind. My conscience.

It helps… sometimes.

Griffin arrives around five in the afternoon.

I listen to him come up the stairs, knowing the sound of his heavy footsteps. When he makes it to the top, he walks by my study, glancing into the room but not bothering to stop and speak.

I frown when he continues walking with his bags in hand. Stepping out of my seat and peeking around the corner, I watch him walk into the bedroom and shut the door behind him.

I walk to the door after several seconds pass by, pressing my ear against it and listening to him shuffle around a bit. Then, he sighs, and I hear the bed creak.

He’s about to take a nap. The same routine when he’s come back from traveling. The time differences always kick his ass.

I don’t bother going in.

Not yet.

I go back to the study, and several hours pass before I hear the bedroom door open again. Griffin shuffles down the hallway and stops at my door. He walks in, but not completely, and I glance up.

“I told Arianna to order grilled asparagus and quinoa for you from Tangu’s.”

I place my paintbrush down, rubbing my forehead. “Okay.”

He studies me, lips pressing. I expect him to say something about last night, the last message I sent that he never responded to, but he doesn’t.

Instead he shakes his head and steps back, shutting the door behind him. I hear him walking down the stairs, and then I hear the garage gate open.

Wait. Where is he going?

I rush for the window, watching as his car backs out and rounds the brick driveway. He leaves and I feel so idiotic.

But I don’t react… at least I think I’m not reacting. My brush presses a little harder on the canvas, and when I pull back, I dip it just a tad bit harder into the paint.

My husband is no longer in love with me.

And I… I am no longer in love with him.

What is the point of this?

Why does our life have to be so fucking complicated?

Griffin only went out to buy himself some dinner and pick up mine. He was only gone for thirty minutes.

He knew I wouldn’t order or cook anything, that I’d miss a meal if I had to, that’s why he had Arianna order it for me so he could pick it up.

I ate it. Fortunately I was hungry.

Griffin and I finally make it into the bedroom together. It’s late, and he hasn’t said much to me after telling me Arianna ordered my dinner.

He’s acting really strange tonight. Avoiding my eyes, hardly talking to me. He’s hardly rubbed two words together since I came in the bedroom.

I’m tired of the bullshit. Tired of the nonsense. I need to know if he feels the same way as I do. Is he fed up? Is he also tired of this charade? Tired of pretending. Has he finally given up on all of this?

I need to know. I mean, even though it won’t change much, it will help something.

If he does still feel something for me, then maybe this won’t be so bad. He’ll chase and chase, and I will continue to have him bowing down to me, hailing me like he did when we first met because I have nothing else better to do.

So, finally, I as we settle into bed while he scrolls through his cellphone, I ask, “Griffin, don’t you wish we could just… end this?”

And he lowers his phone and stares at me, eyes so wide and distraught I can’t help but feel the slightest bit of sympathy.

Finally he speaks, and I’m actually shocked by his answer. “Yeah, Colette,” he mutters. “You know what? I do. I wish for this to be over every single day now. Too bad that’s never going to happen, though, huh?”

He stares at me for several seconds before finally sighing and turning over, placing his phone on the nightstand before shutting off his lamp.

His back is to me, and I know he won’t budge for the rest of the night, so I sink beneath my blankets, shut my lamp off, and stare up at the ceiling.

I’m pissed that he’d say it so blatantly, and the first reaction that comes to mind is to hurt him back—say that I’m sleeping with someone else—but I don’t.

Because it could jeopardize things. It could get ugly, and then I’d lose my occasional dose of side dick from my guy.

Not only that, but I also realize that if I say something like that to him, confess that truth, then it only means that I’m doing it out of spite, because deep down he’s hurt my feelings… but I don’t want him to think he can still hurt or get to me.

I don’t want him to because he’s hurt me enough.

I won’t let him pull any more emotion out of me.

I won’t let him back in, not after what so devastatingly happened because of him.

So, instead, I flip over too, my back to his back, and I shut my eyes and imagine a life without him. I imagine how free I could be, sleeping with men that I randomly meet in a quiet and quaint bar, or at a nightclub.

A one night stand if I please. I could have so much fun.

It would be like the old days again, before I ever met Griffin Boyd.

I can forget all the damage.

I can move the hell on.

Too bad it will never happen that way.

Shit, a girl can dream, right?

FOURTEEN

Griffin

Guilt is the last thing I felt for Colette last night.

I don’t know why. I thought once I walked through the front door of the home we so miserably shared, it would hit me that I did something terrible behind her back, but it didn’t.

During my flight here I’d never felt so content.

Relaxed.

Maybe it is because I’d finally unleashed my pent up frustrations on a beautiful body I’d been dying to get inside of. Or maybe it’s because I simply don’t care anymore. Really, I don’t care.