I fall back on my ass hard, and pull my knees into my chest, and my hands cover my mouth. “What did you do?” I ask, my body now rocking back and forth, preparing for the worst.

Trevor stands to his feet and brushes the front of his sweater off, pulling a tissue from his pocket and holding it up to his still-bleeding nose. He doesn’t make eye contact with me for minutes until he takes a deep breath. “I didn’t do anything,” he says, his face flat. “I have to make some calls, but I think this is all my dad. I think this was probably his plan all along.”

He starts to walk to his car, and I stand to follow him. He’s pulling his phone out and dialing, but stops short to stare at me, to warn me—it’s clear he doesn’t want me around for this. I find a nearby bench, and I sit and watch as Trevor paces, making call after call. He seems almost as frustrated as Cody did, but he’s cooler—calmer. Probably because he’s not losing the only thing he really ever cared about. Of course, he did lose me.

Trevor’s on the phone with at least a dozen different people for almost an hour, and I just sit, folded on the bench, watching his every movement, searching for clues. When he hangs up after his final call, he pauses and stares out over the rows of headstones for several minutes. His shoulders finally fall as his head turns and his eyes find me. He pushes his phone into his pocket and walks over slowly. I’m biting at the skin around my fingers, already having chewed away every last fingernail.

“Like I said…this was all Jim. He has a guy who’s investing in the land with him. They planted some evidence to knock Cody out. They want to tear the shop down, put up condos and shops,” he shrugs, looking away from me briefly before coming at me again. “What the hell, Charlotte? What the hell happened…to us?”

I can’t answer him. I know he deserves one, and I wish I could give it to him. I wish I could love him, because it would be easier—and I wouldn’t feel dead inside. But I can’t answer him. Not today—maybe not ever.

My mind won’t stop racing, because I don’t know where Cody is, or how I’m ever going to explain that Jim warned me, and I didn’t listen. I was selfish, because I wanted him so damned much. I don’t know why any of this happened. And I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t know where to call home; I don’t have one. The only thing that’s certain is I can’t stay here—in Louisville. This place ruins me—ruins everything. And I can’t wait to leave it.

Chapter 19: Homeless

“Just stay. It’s fine,” Trevor says, packing what remains of his from the closet we shared into two suitcases.

We didn’t talk at all on the plane ride home; in fact, Trevor sat in a single seat, leaving me two rows behind and across the aisle. When we arrived back at the house, late last night, Trevor pulled out the extra pillow and blanket and slept in a spare room. I didn’t sleep at all—instead, staring out the window at the darkness across the driveway. Cody’s truck never pulled up, and his lights were off all night.

I started a dozen text messages to him, but I deleted every one. They weren’t enough—you can’t put what I need to say to Cody in a text. And I don’t know that he’ll listen to me in person.

“Trevor, I’m not staying here. It would be…weird. And I’m pretty sure your father hates my guts,” I say, pulling out my own suitcase to start packing my own bag. I don’t know where I’ll go—maybe a hotel for a night or two. But there’s no way I’m staying in this house ever again.

Trevor doesn’t fight me and just shrugs, turning his focus back to his packing. I hate how things ended, and I hate this feeling in the pit of my stomach. I want to talk to him, like I used to, but he’s so far away despite being in the very same room.

“Trevor…I’m…” I start, but he cuts me off.

“No. You don’t get to say sorry. Not yet,” he says, tossing a shirt into the pile that’s building in his bag. He just stares at me with a hard gaze; it’s more than disappointment—I swear I can see actual loathing.

“I’m stuck, Charlotte. I’m stuck somewhere between being hurt and hating you. I want to f**king hate you. God, do I want to hate you!” he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed and rubbing his forehead. “But I don’t. I just want to understand. Damn it, Charlotte…I thought we were happy. I thought I knew what you wanted. What went wrong?”

I sit on the opposite corner of the bed, pulling my leg up sideways and turning to him. I want to reach for his hand, hug him. I fold my hands in my lap and look down, breathing slowly through my nose to give me time to gather my words. I’ve practiced this speech a million times, and I perfected it on our flight home.