There's 750 dollars in my bank account when I arrive in Nashville the next morning, day nine, and I use a little less than half to rent a small rental car that smells like stale fast food. The guy at the rental counter says that I'll get $150 of my money back when I return the car, and all I'm able to do is nod.
I've not cried since leaving the Four Seasons. To be honest, I can't. And believe me, it hurts but I just . . . can't.
I drive around for two hours, unsure of where I should go, what I should do. I know what it's like to be used. My mom had made sure I was well-equipped with that knowledge over the years. Yet somehow, the few days I spent with Lucas seem like so much more than a lifetime with Mom.
And I find myself wanting to wake-up. Wanting to open my eyes and kiss him. Wanting him to devour me just a little more.
When my phone rings, I don't even look to see who's calling me. I just answer. Exist. Kylie's crying when I lift the receiver to my ear.
"Please tell me he didn't," she sobs.
A tiny portion of the numbness fades. I feel the splitting headache. Nearly swerve off the road. "Why does it matter?" I ask her.
"He's letting her control him. I checked his - he sent her a wire this morning for 250 grand and then I called him, and . . ."
More of the detachment floats away, constricting my throat. "Sam?" I ask in a hoarse voice. I think of her words to me last night at Cilla's party, of Lucas's argument with her yesterday morning.
"She's got something on him, Sienna. I've got no fucking clue what it is but she threatened him. She doesn't want him happy. She's - "
Sam is the queen of hearts inside of the stopwatch.
Sam is calling the shots on Lucas, so he feels he has to call them on everyone else, on me.
The rest of the numbness is gone now, leaving a nauseating pain in the center of my chest. I pull over at a gas station and rest my head on the steering wheel. "Kylie, I'll call you back," I whisper. She's still talking, begging me not to go, when I draw the phone from my ear. I hang up on her, powering it completely off.
And then, the tears finally come.
When everything is said and done, and after I spend the night feeling sorry for myself in a seedy pay by the hour motel, I go back to Gram's house. Her eyes are damp when she meets me outside on the porch and it takes everything not to cry too.
"You're back," she says, embracing me.
I breathe her scent in, nodding. "Only for a few days."
"I should probably go ahead and tell you that the new owner, Mr. Wolfe, won't be moving to Nashville after all. He's very generously given me the house back," she says. I feign surprise, gasping, and her grip tightens around me. "Sienna, I know where you've been."
My blood runs cold as I lean back slowly, ashamedly, to meet her gaze. "What?"
"When we went to see your mom yesterday, Seth told me. Now, don't get angry with him - he was only trying to give me some peace of mind, but to be honest . . ."
And as Gram leads me into the house - her home - I hear myself telling everything. I leave out the specifics, of course, but she listens, hanging on to every word I have to say. I put enthusiasm into my voice; make my actions lively and happy.
After I'm finished, she holds me close. She doesn't ask any more questions of me, even though I know they're on her mind and she's fully aware there's so much more to what's happened between me and Lucas. "You and Seth are two of the greatest things that have ever happened to me."
"I know, Gram. I don't know where I'd be without you," I murmur, digging my fingers into her sweater, holding on for support.
A long email from Lucas arrives in my inbox late that evening. As I read it, I'm forced to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying again. Or from grinding my teeth.
Sienna,
It's sad that this is what I do for a living and I can't even come up with a decent explanation for myself. Then again, maybe that's because I've never had to or wanted to explain my actions before you. I know I hurt you. I know you must want me to fucking die right now, and I'm so sorry.
-Lucas
I start to just erase it - because really what good does replying do - but then I find myself hitting reply. I find myself typing a message that's just as short but so much more succinct than what he's given me.
Dear Lucas,
One of these days, you're going to have to stand up for yourself. No matter what someone's holding over your head.
Sienna
I don't dwell on what I've said or read over it 50 times, I just hit send.
