Chapter 31: Call Me

I don't know how he got my number.

I deleted his, but maybe he never deleted mine.

Who cares how he got my number, the real question here is why did he text me?

The text message is still burned in my brain, even though I've thrown my phone across the room and I'm staring at it from where I sit on the bed, resting against the headboard.

Maybe I'm imagining it. There's no way he would text me, especially not after almost two years of no contact.

Just to be safe, I carefully get off the bed, wincing as my ribs smart with pain, and grab my crutches, walking over to my phone.

The doctors deemed that my ribs were healing well enough to be able to use crutches to walk by myself. It still hurts a little bit, but not enough to the point that I can't use the crutches.

I grab my phone off the floor with my sock-clad foot, and bring my good leg closer to me, grabbing my phone.

Unknown Number: Cassandra?

I almost drop my phone because I have a feeling I'm not imagining it. I know it's from him; throughout most of my life, he's one of the only ones to ever call me by my full first name.

I'm thinking about what I should do when another text from him shows up on my lock screen.

Unknown Number: it's Kyle

I shut my eyes tight. This is not happening. We were never supposed to talk again. We were supposed to be done with each other.

I don't understand what I'm feeling. On one hand, I love the fact that he reached out to me, I'm excited that he still wants to talk, but on the other hand, I don't want anything to do with him.

I shove my phone in my back pocket and leave it there. For about five seconds.

After that short amount of time, I'm pulling it out again and walking back over to the bed to sit down.

Me: what do u want?

Unknown Number: I want to talk

Me: you're in luck, we just talked

Me: later

Unknown Number: Cassandra come on you know what I meant

Of course I know what he meant; I just don't want to have the conversation I think he wants to have.

Me: fine

Me: what do you want to talk about?

Kyle: not over text

Kyle: can we meet up somewhere?

No fucking way is that happening. I'm not sure I ever want to see him again, let alone talk to him, but I can't deny the part of me that wants to hear his voice.

Me: how about you just call me

Almost immediately after the message is sent, an incoming call shows up on my screen, the caller ID showing the same number as the number I was just texting.

I hesitate. Is this really the best choice? Should I be doing this? I told myself I would never talk to him again, but I didn't expect myself to want to talk to him, at least not this much.

Before the call ends and he goes to voicemail, I answer the phone, holding it up to my ear.

"Cassandra."

I close my eyes. Fuck. "Yep." I work hard on keeping my voice emotionless, but I'm not sure to what extent of works. "What do you want?"

He's silent, and I know he's examining my words. It's weird. We've been apart for so long, yet I still know his habits and what almost everything he does means. "I just wanted to apologise. For what happened. For what I did."

"Great, apology not accepted, have a nice day."

"Cassandra."

I hold in a sigh. Should've known that wouldn't work. "What, Kyle? You made it pretty clear we were over that day, and I'm fine with that." So not fine.

"Would you just listen to me?" he shouts, and I yank the phone away from my ear to look at it before placing it back to my ear. He's never once raised his voice at me. His sigh comes through the phone. "I'm sorry, Cassandra, I didn't mean to yell, I just, I need you to listen to me. Okay?"

I say nothing, mostly because I really want to hear what he has to say.

"I'm sorry. I don't know why I thought it was okay to do that. I was drunk. I never would have done it otherwise."

I interrupt him angrily. "Bullshit. Being drunk isn't an excuse to do what you did. What, were you drunk and your clothes magically came off and you just happened to land on that girl's naked body? Is that what happened? If you did it when you were drunk you would've eventually done it when you were sober. Don't sit there and try to patronize me and act like you didn't mean it when we both know you did."

He's silent for a while, but when he speaks again, his voice is different. Colder. Like it was that night. "Look at little Cass. She's figured everything out, hasn't she? You're still that dumb little bitch from two years ago, hung up on your dumb dead dog. I––"

I hang up the phone, his words hitting home. I had a feeling he was a legitimate ass, but I didn't know he was this much of one. He brought up Snow––my dumb dead dog––like it was nothing.

I grab my crutches and walk out of the room Aaron's mom put me in and down the stairs, which takes a little effort.

I make it into the part of the living room with the piano and sit down on the bench.

My hands go to the keys as my crutches fall to the floor, and I start to play.

The first beginning notes of Für Elise begin to sound through the room.

What did I ever see in him? The fact that I thought he cared about me and he didn't, the fact that I loved him and he hurt me, stings more than it did the night I caught him in my room, my bed, thrusting himself inside a girl.

The memories come back, and the pressure I'm placing on the keys increases, my fingers messing up more of the notes as my eyes blur with tears.

The look he gave me when I let out a sob that night killed me then, and it kills me now, and now I'm banging randomly on the keys, the piano letting out nasty sounds that sound how I'm feeling.

I'm sobbing, bending over the keys, and arms wrap around me from behind and pull me away from the piano.

The person pulls me to the floor, my back against their chest, and rocks me back and forth, slowly and softly, letting me cry out into the room.

I struggle to get away, not wanting to cry. I want to suffer in my sadness because I deserve to, but the person doesn't let me go, they just hold on tighter, making a soft shushing sound in my ear, still rocking me.

I hate him. I hate him so much. The thing is, I loved him and he hurt me, and I loved my parents and they hurt me, and I loved Gabs and she hurt me.

Why is everyone hurting me?

I'm not crying anymore, just small sniffles now, but I'm still wrapped up in the someone's arms, still being rocked back and forth.

"You're okay, Cassie. It's okay."

Aaron.

I find myself relaxing back into his hold, finally allowing him to comfort me. His cologne fills my nose and comforts me even further, as does the warmth coming from him.

The sniffles have stopped now, and he hesitantly lets go of me, turning me around to face him. "Better?" he asks, his eyes scanning my tear-stained face. I nod. "Do you want to talk about it?"

My immediate reaction is to shake my head, to keep my feelings bottles up, but something inside my head is screaming at me to tell him, to talk to him.

I nod again, and he helps me stand up and sit down on the couch, where he sits down next to me––so close our thighs are touching––and grabs my hand.

Here we go.

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Another short chapter (less than 1500 words this time), but these stress headaches are killing me, guys.

--Rose