Chapter Thirty-Seven

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The sound of the door slamming against the wood frame startles me, and I jump backward. I shout after him, tell him he's a coward and an asshole for not talking to me. But after a while of infuriating silence, I give up and run my hands through my hair. I wipe away the livid tears from my flushed cheeks and look around. The TV show I planned for us to start together is already queued and ready to play, and our sandwiches and drinks are sitting on the coffee table. Ten minutes ago, we were ready to watch a show and spend the night snuggled in each other's embrace... but now—now Blue is back to being a mysterious jerk and I'm crying in our apartment all alone.

I use the back of my hands to swipe away tears and get to work cleaning up. I put the sandwiches and drinks away then fold and place the comforter back in the hallway closet. I made the bed before we went to LA, so I just put the pillows back on the bed and pad into the living room. Before leaving, I cleaned the entire house. I have nothing to do, I'm not hungry anymore, I'm confused and angrier than ever. I plop onto the couch and start the show; it's called How to Get Away with Murder. All I know about it is that it has to do with murder, obviously, and other crazy drama. I've heard nothing but good things about it, and I need to distract myself.

Unfortunately, even after binge watching four episodes, my mind wanders off to think about Blue and his extreme behavior a few hours ago. He overreacted over an obvious secret he doesn't think I should know about. I know it has nothing to do with me, but what did he expect? We came home to a crazy girl banging on our door, yelling for him with a bag that holds who knows what. Did he seriously think I would forget her and move on like it never happened? And what's so damn important in that freaking bag? Something illegal? My mind rattles off a dangerous list: drugs, blood money, a gun. But he isn't like that. Blue would never have any of those things because he stopped being bad when he met me, right?

He doesn't trust me. Plain and simple. After everything we have been through, he doesn't have any trust in me whatsoever. I thought I chipped away at his impenetrable wall a long time ago, but it turns out I was too blind to see the invisible barrier hidden around him. There is no need for any protection, though. Not to keep me out at least. We are more than a couple, we are partners, and I'd never leave him. I made that frightfully clear when I forgave the despicable thing he did to me and gave us another chance. If he doesn't see that I am forever in love with his twisted, dark, and annoyingly beautiful self, then he's blind than ever.

Even though I am furiously pissed with him, I still love him and want him to know I'm ready to talk whenever he leaves the dark castle in his head. I pause the current episode and text him to be safe and come back home soon. I can't help but add an 'I love you' at the end, because I'm whipped by Blue freaking Montgomery even when he's being a huge dick. I resume the show and promptly fall asleep, dreaming of golden trophies and black bags filled with bodies.

When I wake up in a few hours, I'm groggy and confused as to why I'm still on the couch. The TV is paused mid-way through an emotional courtroom scene, and there are bread crumbs on my hoodie. Correction, Blue's hoodie.

Where is he anyway?

"Blue?" I call and yawn loudly. I stand up and stretch, a slight knot in the back of my neck. I didn't mean to fall asleep on the couch. It's comfortable to sit on, but not sleep on all night. I walk to the bathroom, half expecting him to be brushing his teeth, but it's empty. Frowning, I use the bathroom, then walk into the bedroom. Maybe he was so ashamed of losing his cool with me for no reason and snuck in without announcing he came back. But he isn't here, either. And the bed doesn't look slept in.

I start to get worried and walk back into the living room and search through the blanket on the couch for my phone. I turn it on and cringe at the bright screen. After a few seconds of adjusting to the natural sunlight beaming through the windows, I look through my messages and call list. He never responded to my text or called to let me know he was fine. He could have at least responded to my text with a thumb's up emoji, so I'd know he's alive and not in a dark alleyway. I begin to imagine him, bloodied, at the wrong place at the wrong time, but then I look at the TV and quickly turn it off. Watching that show before going to sleep was a very bad idea. He is okay, he isn't dead or kidnapped or involved in covering an accidental murder. I have to repeat this in my head to avoid having a panic attack.

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