Waiting For You (Beautiful Surrender #1)(2)
Author: Ava Claire

“Melissa–”

“Tell me the truth!” I hissed, my frustrations and my broken heart paraded for him to see. I locked my jaw when his eyes softened with pity. “I don’t want pity. I want honesty.” I’d never asked for specifics before. I’d always been too ashamed. Too afraid. Now the only thing that scared me was the fear that it really was me.

He exhaled, the gravelly sigh shaking his muscled frame. “The things you need in the bedroom…it’s not right.” When my eyes widened, he quickly added, “Not right for me. You need things I can’t provide.”

My face scrunched in confusion. “Because I want you to be more aggressive? Because I want you to take charge?” It didn’t seem like an impossible request. In hindsight, I remembered something flashing in his eyes before he tried to switch it up and please me. Had it been apprehension? Disgust? “I can try and be better.” I hated how weak I sounded. “We can just go back to how things were–”

“I don’t want to go back to the way things were,” he said flatly. “And there’s–” He paused, his eyes abandoning me. “There’s someone else.”

I thought the break up was the bomb. I was wrong.

My heart splintered into a million pieces as the tears streamed down my face. He wasn’t just leaving, but he cheated on me too?

He took a step toward me, and I held up a hand to stop him from coming any further.

Realization flooded his face. “Oh God, nothing’s happened, Mel.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, guilt framing his eyes. “But I want something to happen. I want her. For once, I have to do what makes me happy.”

My throat tightened, invisible fingers crushing my windpipe. He wanted her. And not me. It should have been a relief that he hadn’t cheated. Not physically anyway.

But I wasn’t relieved. I was furious.

I balled my fists, entertaining the idea of punching his perfect face. My heart was bleeding…it was only fair that he bleed, too.

Was he with her all those nights I texted and he told me he was oh so tired? Did he long to make her moan while I longed for his touch?

“Get out.” The words were a whispered command that shattered me.

He didn’t hear it, but from his slow retreat, he could put two and two together. The problem was, he wasn’t moving nearly fast enough.

“GET OUT!” I roared.

He fled so quickly that he forgot to close the door behind him. The world outside zipped by, a Technicolor blur. Still spinning even though my heart was broken. Somewhere in the haze of anger, I realized I was standing in a bra and underwear with the door wide open.

It was like a part of me had detached and remained unaffected. That part tugged at my strings and made me trudge to the door. When I reached for the handle, something white and crumpled fell to the floor. I followed its descent, frowning. As it hit the ground, I recoiled like it was something poisonous. Something dangerous. I guess it was. At my feet was naiveté. It was a belief that I ever had anything to save.

I stepped over the balled up envelope and slammed the door shut. When I turned around, it was still there. Taunting me.

Even though I’d lived in Sacramento for two and a half years, I’d never been to Santa Cruz. Work always got in the way, but Jason had always said he’d take me and teach me how to surf.

Tears pricked my eyes. I wondered if he’d take her. A tear dashed my cheek as I bent over and retrieved the envelope. I straightened out the ball of paper inside, nostrils flaring with emotion as I scanned the confirmation from VRBO. I paid for three nights at a studio one block from Pleasure Point, a renowned location for surfing. You could see the crystal blue water from the street. I brushed the pictures like I was stroking a long lost lover. I’d been to beaches in San Francisco, but the sand had been like crushed ice. Santa Cruz would be like the beaches back home in North Carolina. Golden sand. Warm. Inviting.

You could always just go.

“By myself?” I said aloud, snorting at the idea. I picked the studio and location for Jason. Going by myself would only rub salt in the wound. How could I enjoy my time there while being reminded that it was supposed to be for us? Our chance to start over again?

Because you’ve paid – and didn’t purchase trip cancellation.

Not that VRBO offered My Boyfriend Broke Up With Me insurance. The trip was fully paid for, and while I made a good living working as a marketing associate at Kaleidoscope Marketing, $872.35 was a lot of money to throw away.

My phone hummed on the coffee table. Even though my head told me to ignore it, my heart was a glutton for punishment.

Jason: I’m so sorry, Mel.

My hands shook as I struggled to think of a reply. Something more powerful than Screw You. I dug deep and decided the best response was none at all before I hurled my phone to the couch. I looked down at the wrinkled paper in my hand, the quaint beach studio calling to me. If I stayed, I’d be out hundreds of dollars, and I’d still be depressed and hurt. If I went, I could at least be depressed and hurt at the beach.

Chapter Two

The road stretched in front and behind me, the slap of the tires taking me closer to escape from all the drama back in Sacramento. Kaleidoscope had just brought on a client who wanted to double, triple, and quadruple check in on a daily basis. If I didn’t hear her nasally condescending voice ever again, it would be too soon. And then there was Jason. Apparently now that he had dumped me and confessed that the reason he hadn’t been in my bed was because he had been daydreaming about someone else, he was suddenly making up for lost time. First it was texts, one-word greetings, and rage inducing emoticons. Then he graduated to long winded apologies, lamenting how he wished things were different.

I’d gotten dangerously close to answering him, telling him to save the BS for his therapist, but I knew the moment I answered, I was giving him power over me…and he would know it. So I deleted his contact information and pretended the anonymous texts weren’t from him. It was easier said than done, but it would get easier. Every day I was getting closer to being okay. My heart hurt a little less. The anger was dying down from a raging inferno that swallowed me whole and was slowly being reduced to an ache in my chest every time my phone beeped and it was him. I could handle the ache. Maybe.

My phone sang on the passenger seat beside me, putting my willpower to the test. I gripped the wheel so tight that my knuckles bleached white. My stomach knotted as I waited for his number to flash across the radio dash, but I exhaled with relief when the name Stacia Martinez showed up instead.