Ambrose has been in love with his best friend, Lana Hart, for years.
But she tied the knot with the love of her life three years ago, leaving Ambrose broken-hearted and disillusioned about love.
Enter Davina, the most difficult girl Ambrose has ever...
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Fuck.
I fucked up.
I thought I was doing the right thing by keeping her confession a secret. But somehow, I did the wrong thing. I couldn't even be bothered with Wesley for telling her the truth. He cared about her; he loved her and it made sense why he sided with her in this. I'm such an idiot. I couldn't even speak when she confronted me.
Not until she was walking away from me, and I felt like my world was crashing down. Davina's stubbornness would be the death of me, but it's one of my favorite traits about her. Or her headstrong attitude which could come off bitchy from an outside view, but she's just a woman who knew what she wanted.
My chest ached. Davina needed time. I knew that, but it freaking hurt to sit in the lobby waiting for my father instead of sorting this out with her. For the past two days, my mind was a spiraling black hole with the new update, but it couldn't be anymore clearer I would do anything for that girl. Even if it meant staying away until she digested everything.
My phone vibrated in my jean pocket.
Dad- Outside, son.
Reluctantly, I stood up from the cushioned couch and walked to his rusty old black Ram truck. This vehicle was laced with tragic memories. Like my forehead leaning against the window with blood pouring out, like when he locked me out of the house on a snowy night and I hid in the car, freezing my ass off. The next morning he tried strangling me in this car.
Anxiety bubbled in my gut as I pulled the door open. If I'm being honest, I didn't feel comfortable sitting in here, but I don't want to make a big deal out of nothing. As if my feelings even mattered. They never had before.
"Hey Dad, I brought coffee," I said, handing over the cup for it, only to slip from my grip.
The coffee spattered all over the gearshift, cup holder, and radio. Alarm flickered in my head like flashing sirens used for a warning. My father exhaled deeply, folding his hands over his chin in prayer motion. Anticipation coiled my gut as I observed his reaction, growing sweater by the second.
I searched through the glove compartment in frenzy motion, hoping to find tissues. He slammed the compartment inches away from my fingertips, and I flinched back, feeling my heart pumping a million miles per second. Foreseeing the worst, my arms reached over my head as a defensive mechanism and leaned closer to the window.
He's going to hit me.
Minutes passed and nothing.
Slowly, I withdrew my arms and watched as Dad used a dirty towel to clean up the mess. His face grew haggard with worry when our eyes connected.
"What? I'm not going to hit you over some fucking spilled coffee. Take it easy and put your seatbelt on," he said, chucking the towel in the backseat.
