Lying in Callan’s bed, I stared up at the ceiling sometime in the middle of the night.
I wished I hadn’t fallen asleep so I could’ve left immediately. But with all the pain, I had found myself dozing off in his arms and listening to him mumble something into my ear about what had happened.
But now, in the middle of the night, he stood outside on the patio with the phone pressed to his ear, talking to his wife’s father. The fun, caring, lighthearted Callan had done it once again—had fooled me into believing that he really cared, that he wasn’t using me for s*x.
Tears welled in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Instead, I sat up in the bed and stared straight ahead at the wall, where there looked to be a picture frame that had been taken down recently.
Like a zombie, I slipped out
