Page 143 of Stupid Matchmaking Love

He closes his eyes for a beat and then drops my hands, rising. “I have to go.”

I stare at my hands, feeling the last trace of his warmth slip away. “Don’t do this, Rhett.”

“I have to.”

“Please. We can work through it. Together. I love you.”

He turns away, and his shoulders shake. He’s crying. “I love you, too,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’m sorry, Cristina. I really am.”

“But what about the competition?”

He keeps his focus straight ahead and replies, “We never wanted to do it in the first place, remember? Let someone else win the money.”

He walks out, and the door closes. The click of the latch sounds like a gunshot.

I stare at it, waiting for him to come back. Waiting for the door to open and for him to say, I can’t do this. I can’t leave you.

But the door stays closed.

The room still smells like him. It shouldn’t.

I sink down, my back hitting the bed. Flame hops over, nudges my hand with her nose. I can’t even pet her.

He’s gone, and my chest aches like it’s trying to remember how to breathe without him.

My phone buzzes. I grab it, desperate—maybe it’s him, maybe he changed his mind—but it’s just Mina popping in again. ​​The challenge. Next week. Bring your game face.​​

I laugh. It’s a bitter, broken sound. Game face. Sure. I’ll put on my game face. Right after I figure out how to breathe when it feels like someone’s ripped my lungs out.

Jace’s words creep back in, poisonous and persistent: None of this is real.

But no. No, that’s not true. Rhett loves me. I know he does. I heard it in his voice when he said goodbye. Saw it in his tears. He loves me. He just can’t be with me.

He didn’t leave because he doesn’t love me. He left because he does.

Somehow that’s worse.

And this time, there’s no one to catch me.

Chapter 48

Cristina

There’s no reason for me to stay at the resort anymore. And worse, there’s something humiliating about stuffing my things in a suitcase and wheeling it out by myself.

I don’t know if Rhett returned to his suite or the room he had before me.

Part of me wants to know. The broken part doesn’t.

For a few weeks I wasn’t too much. I was exactly enough.

Jace was right. I was too much for him. I was too much for Rhett.

That’s me, Little Miss Too Much.

I pick up the bunnicorn’s cage. “Come on, Flame,” I whisper. “Let’s go home.”

My apartment feels empty, like I don’t recognize the person who lived here. My thrifted furniture, boho rugs, and small succulent plants seem like they exist in a different life, with a different Cristina, one whose insides haven’t been scooped out.