Page 62 of Orc'd At A Wedding
"Bliss—"
"Don't." My voice cracks, and I hate myself for it. "Don't try to make this okay. Don't try to explain it away or rationalize it or make it sound like you're doing me a favor. You're scared. Fine. I get it. But don't stand there and tell me my feelings aren't real just because yours are too overwhelming for you to handle."
I zip the suitcase closed with more force than necessary and haul it off the floor, it pulling awkwardly at my shoulder.
Olog doesn't move.
I grab my purse, slinging it over my other shoulder, and I head for the door, my heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor.
"Where are you going?" His voice is tight.
"Home." I don't look back. "Where I apparently belong, according to you."
"Bliss, wait?—"
"Why?" I spin around, and I can feel the tears on my face now, hot and angry and completely beyond my control. "So you can give me another lecture about practical incompatibilities? So you can explain to me one more time why I don't actually know what I want? I'm done, Olog. I'm done trying to convince you that I'm capable of making my own decisions. I'm done begging you to let me choose you."
He takes a step toward me, his hand outstretched, and I see the conflict written all over his face, the war between what he wants and what he thinks is right.
I step back.
"Keep your five-star rating," I say. "You earned it. You were the perfect fake boyfriend. Congratulations."
I yank open the door and walk out into the hallway, my suitcase banging against my leg with every step, and I do not let myself look back.
The door clicks shut behind me.
I make it exactly three steps before I have to stop and lean against the wall, my whole body shaking, my breath coming in sharp, painful gasps that I cannot quite control.
The hallway is empty and quiet and decorated in the same aggressively tasteful luxury as the rest of the resort, all soft lighting and expensive carpet and fresh flowers in crystal vases.
I hate all of it.
I hate the flowers and the carpet and the crystal and the fact that I am standing here crying in a five-star hotel because I fell in love with a man who thinks I am too fragile to survive his life.
My phone buzzes in my purse.
I pull it out, expecting a text from Olog, some kind of apology or explanation or final attempt to make me understand his perspective.
It's not from Olog.
It's from my aunt Susan.
Bliss, darling, I didn't get a chance to say goodbye. Your young man seems absolutely devoted. Do hold onto that one. Men like him are rare.
I read the message for a long moment, and then I do something I have never done before.
I block her number.
Then I block my father's number.
Then I block my cousin's number, and my ex's number, and the numbers of half a dozen other relatives who have spentthe past decade making me feel small and insufficient and perpetually apologetic for existing.
I block all of them.
When I'm done, my contacts list looks startlingly empty.
I shove the phone back in my purse and grab the handle of my suitcase, forcing myself to stand up straight, to keep moving, to get out of this hallway and out of this hotel and away from the man who is still standing in that suite trying to convince himself he made the right choice.
