I stared at the speckled ceiling tiles, counting each irregular dot in my boredom. I’d been at it for hours.
There were 516 on the tile directly above my head.
I felt like Edmond Dantes from The Count of Monte Cristo in that moment, in his cell on Château d’If.
If there was a hell, I was certain I was in it. Half crazy, all broken, pain radiating through all of my body and soul.
Nathan’s words didn’t help. I’d accepted that he didn’t want me, that he was through with me. Part of me wanted to run into his arms, but another part reminded me of the pain from his heartbreaking note.
Round and round I went with myself, neither side winning. The only thing I could do was count the holes, since I had no answers. I was halfway through the tile to my right, the fourth in my dive into crazy tow
