What does it matter anymore? I am dying—why should I care about restrictions?
I collapsed onto the couch, opened a bottle, and took deep swigs.
Maybe the alcohol would help me forget my longing for him, if only for a little while.
My phone rang, jolting me from my thoughts. I glanced at the caller ID—it was him.
I shot up, tears streaming down my face like a waterfall.
After all these days of holding back my feelings and resisting the urge to call him, he was reaching out. I thought maybe Marvin still cared.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself before answering the phone.
His voice, however, was cold as ice. "Your trophy's still at my place. If you don't want it, I can dispose of it for you."
His words felt like a sharp dagger piercing right through my heart.
"Could you send it to me, please?" I managed to say calmly.
So, that was the reason for his call. How much did he loathe me that he couldn't even tolerate a trophy?
He let out a sardonic laugh. "I'm busy; I don't have the time."
"There are plenty of maids at the house. Could you ask one…"
"Come get it yourself."
Thus, our disheartening conversation came to an end.