Savior Complex: A Small Town Love Triangle Romance

Yet, here I am ending her whole entire world in a cold, empty hotel room.

“I’ll stay,” I agree.

I help her clean the room and put the bed together. She undresses in the bathroom, then comes out in a pair of thick sweats. I stay in my clothes and take the space beside her. She curls into me for a moment, her head on my chest, her hand resting on my abdomen. I don’t move to envelop her. I just lay there, waiting for her to fall asleep. Eventually she rolls away from me, facing the wall in a fetal position. I remain still, aware of her quiet sniffling and shuddering breaths as she cries into the night. But then her breathing slows, the shuddering making way for deep exhales into the quiet of night.

I slide from the bed and out the door, silently saying my final goodbye.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Nina

I sit alone at the tiny bistro table in my kitchen. The sunlight streams through the windows, no curtains to keep the light from blinding me. My coffee sits untouched in front of me, likely cold. Like my heart. The house is silent, save for the clicking clock on the kitchen wall, keeping time with the passing of the day.

I haven’t changed my clothes in a week, haven’t visited a store in two, and I should probably invest in DoorDash stock with the amount of to-go bags piling up in the corner. I haven’t talked to anyone in three weeks, since I kicked both Brayden and Jordy out of the house. Not even when she swung by the next day to retrieve her things. I remained in my room the whole time, not even caring if she took anything of mine. There was nothing left to take, anyways. I don’t give a fuck about any of it.

I’ve avoided the outside world as much as possible, except to check the mail every few days. Bills. Junk mail. And my final check from the ranch.

I haven’t opened that last one. I can tell it’s Angie’s handwriting on the front, and it brings another wave of shame over me. What if she knows too? What is she thinking?

Are they all laughing at me, about what a fool I’ve been?

I abandon my coffee on the table, my eyes sweeping over the crusty coffee cups that have accumulated on the counters alongside forks and plates, dirty napkins, and more containers. In the corner, my trash can is overflowing. I haven’t even taken the trash cans to the curb, and I’m sure my neighbors will complain to the city any day now.

I don’t care. Nothing matters. I just exist to wake up, force myself to eat, then go back to sleep. Repeat.

If anyone is checking on me, I wouldn’t know. I’ve put my phone on do-not-disturb to avoid talking to anyone. Besides, who would call? Not my mother, unless she needs something. Maybe Brayden, but his number is still blocked. Definitely not Jordy, who would probably prefer to nail my heart to a stake than talk to me ever again.

So it’s just me, existing in a house that doesn’t feel like mine anymore.

Which is why, when my doorbell rings, I instinctively freeze. I turn slightly toward the door, as if whoever is on the other side can see me. But through the etched stain glass, no one can. So I sit on the couch, waiting for my unwanted guest to leave. They knock and I hear my name.

It’s Maren, and the sound of her voice makes me crave the presence of a human being. I place my hands on the arm of the couch, ready to stand. But then I look down at what I’m wearing, becoming aware of my unbrushed teeth and rat’s nest hair. I realize how awful I look and how I can’t let anyone, not even Mare, see me in this condition.

With horror, I hear a key applied to the lock, and the door opening. I dive onto the couch and hold my breath.

“Nina? Are you—what the fuck is that smell?”

I grimace but stay hidden on this horribly uncomfortable couch. Seriously, how could any store sell this as something to sit on?

“Wow, things have changed since I lived here.” I hear Maren’s boots clod down the hall and approach the couch. “Come on, get up.”

“No.” The sound of my voice is almost shocking to me. Slightly raspy. I guess that’s what happens when you haven’t said a word in three weeks.

“Get up and help me clean this place now, or I’ll take photos of you and post them all over Instagram.”

“Bitch,” I mutter, sitting up. My hand flies to my hair, noting the greasy mess under the fading lavender tangles. Maren looks me up and down.

“Okay, plan B. Claire and I will start cleaning while you go take a shower.”

“You brought your annoying friend here?”

“Present!” Claire sings out, and I groan, sinking back against the couch. “And I brought sustenance!”

I glance in her direction, and my stomach rumbles when I see the label on the bag—Sunset Sourdough, home of the best deli sandwiches in the world.

“We got you the Brooklyn Bridge,” Maren says with a smile, and I nearly pass out with need. The Brooklyn Bridge is basically every Italian meat there is, with buffalo mozzarella, roasted red pepper, pepperoncinis, and Italian dressing on a crunchy sourdough roll. It is literally the best sandwich in the world, and this might be the first time I’ve felt any sense of craving in three weeks.

“But you can’t eat until you’ve showered,” Maren says as I eye the bag.