There wasn’t a trace of guilt in his voice.
I backed away before anyone saw me and stumbled outside, collapsing onto a concrete bench with my face in my hands.
My phone buzzed.
It was my mother.
“Chloe, your father just finalized the lease for the house in Tucson,” she said warmly. “We’re moving next week, and there’s still plenty of room if you want to come along.”
For months, I had refused because of Brendan.
I looked at the dark bruise on my arm, remembered my blood being thrown away, and thought about ninety-six humiliations that had become private jokes.
“Mom, please save a room for me,” I whispered through my tears.
After I hung up, another message appeared.
Brendan: “Come over tomorrow morning. We still have three things to resolve.”
I didn’t yet know those final three things could destroy far more than our relationship.
PART 2
That night, I returned to my Pasadena apartment, locked the deadbolt, and pulled a large suitcase from the closet.
For the first time in three years, I wasn’t thinking about how to fix things with Brendan. I was figuring out how to remove myself from his life.
I packed clothes, important documents, and several family photos.
When I found the silver dance shoes from that championship, I stopped.
For years, looking at them had filled me with strange guilt. Now I finally understood why. Brendan had turned my proudest achievement into the excuse for my punishment.
At two in the morning, someone pounded on my door.
“Chloe, open the door right now,” Brendan called out from the hallway.
My heart raced, but I walked over without unlocking it.
“Go away, Brendan,” I said firmly.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” he asked, sounding mildly annoyed.
I laughed bitterly.
“I heard everything at the clinic today.”
Silence.
Then he asked, “Who told you?”
He didn’t ask if I was alright or what I had heard. He only cared who had exposed him.
“Nobody told me,” I answered through the wooden door. “I heard you and your friends with my own ears.”
Brendan paused.
“Chloe, you are completely exaggerating as usual.”
“Exaggerating?” I shouted back. “You made me donate blood for a fake accident!”
“It was just a harmless joke,” he scoffed.
“A harmless joke?” I repeated in disbelief.
“Nobody held a gun to your head and forced you to donate,” he snapped back dismissively.
