Delayed by Nathan Kingsly (the false prince TXT) 📗

Only now realizing her toothbrush and hairbrush that I took for granted until now are gone. Twisting, her bag is gone.

My fists clench, the bite of it comforting compared to the unnerving feeling takes over. I take one last look around the room. If it wasn’t for the two cups on the coffee table, I could convince myself I’d dreamt her up. Maybe she went to get breakfast? No, she left with her bag and shit, you idiot. There’s no reason to think she took all that stuff with her, only to come back and serve me some oatmeal and toast.

The war is over. She is queen and made her move first. It’s now clear that Emma is well versed in protecting herself and leaving the other chips to land as they may. I'm collateral damage, and I hadn’t seen it until it was too late.

The urge to break something, rip something to shreds, is making me see red. How could I have been so blind? Emma didn’t seem like the girl to pack up and say goodbye without a word.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I replay what I had thought was an escape from reality. My own personal bubble of blissful pause. Now it’s starting to get tangled with all my regrets.

I decide my options, and only one seems bearable. So, when I get up, I grab my duffle and start pulling out what I need for my plane back to my apartment.

There’s no way I can go home now. The thought of going back to my apartment isn’t appealing, but it’s the only place left at this point to go.

Just as I’m about to reach for the door, I check one last time. On the floor on her side of the bed, I find the single piece of paper. I sink to the edge of the bed. The name of the hotel finally had its moment to mock me.

With the air conditioner silent in the room, the paper crumpling is deafening. My hands ache with how hard I crush it. If the thing had lungs to breathe, they’d be dust, much like how my insides feel.

Son of a bitch, after everything I fucking shared with her, all she left was a note. Who is she to tell me what I should do? She doesn’t know a goddamn thing. If the truth were staring her in the face, she wouldn’t see it for what it is. I have half a mind to go back, face everything I left in Georgia, only to prove her wrong.

No one at home wants me. My father died, my mother blames me, and my sister didn’t take sides, leaving me to hang for my sins alone. If they didn’t make it clear six years ago, my sister made sure I understood that yesterday. She’s finally picked a side, and it’s not mine. I’ve failed everyone I’ve ever cared for and believing Emma was different is an oversight that I’m paying for.

Even thinking her name is a knife wrenched in my gut. When I told her about my past, it wasn’t like ripping off a bandage. It’s a war wound that was never properly taken care of. It gapes, has questionable leakage, red at the edges refusing to heal, and not once scabbed over. I am a walking hole, and to trust anyone to begin to understand that is the single most ignorant thing I’ve done to date.

No, I’m not going home. The only place left for me is my apartment, and maybe not even that anymore. With my father’s killer on the loose, surely out looking for revenge, it might be the first place he searches for. It’s easy to leave behind; nothing there is worth going back for.

My blood runs cold, razor blades stuck to shred my veins as I convince myself that he might have taken Emma, but the feeling passes. She took the time to write a note and take her bag. The man, Ger Malcom Wainwright, isn’t capable of patience to kidnap anyone unless it’s my mother. It makes me wish I could see his expression when he realizes she is out of his reach.

No, he wouldn’t have waited for her to do any of that, so Emma, wherever she is, went under her own will. My hands flex on the paper again as my insides feel charred. Walking towards the waste bin, I release finger by finger, until I hear the telling plastic crinkle of the lining. The page finds a place amongst the rest of the trash. A taste of bile fills my mouth that I can think of her or her safety after she left like that.

Grabbing my bag from the floor, where I abandoned it, my hand grips the cold door handle, and the retraction of the latch abrupt to the silence of a moment ago.

Sighing, my shoulders curve inward, my bag forcing a lopsided slouch before I stand and release the knob. Even if it’s not for Emma, there is a need to be sure, with Ger out of prison, that everything is okay at home.

Looking over my shoulder, the wastebasket seems to draw me with invisible energy until I am standing before it and not remembering how I got there. Looking down, stark against the dusty brown of the coffee cups we’ve accumulated, is the letter. Before I can change my mind, I yank it out of the bin and jam it into the front pocket of my jeans. How many times will I prove that I am weak when it comes to Emma C.B.?

“Fuck,” I spit. Twisting around, I stalk back to the door. Yanking it open, the hinges squeal in protest from the force. It vibrates as it impacts the wall. I’ve got no remorse for the damage it may cause; they can chalk it up to the storm. The record books will call this one Helen; I call mine Emma.

A sharp gasp