Chapter VIII

Before she was fully awake, Buffy knew that something was wrong.  The arms that had held her all night and the chest, rising and falling beneath her head, were gone.  She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and searched the room.  His clothes were gone.

Her sleeping demon of desertion, instantly aroused, leapt up and gnawed at her.  She tried to stay calm, thinking, ‘He’s just in the other room.’  Jumping out of bed, she grabbed her robe from the back of the door, tying it as she walked into the living room.  He was gone.  Looking carefully around the room, tears stinging behind her eyes, she found no trace.  No note, no sign … no Angel.

She thought it would be different.  She thought he’d be there when she woke up, imagined his eyes looking down when she opened hers.  But Angel wasn’t there and it twisted her heart how much she cared.  The pain grew no matter how hard she tried to ignore it.  It wasn’t the first time loving someone had hurt.  But it was much deeper and hurt much more than it ever had before.  She finally gave in, the heartache pushing out tears she had been trying not to cry.  Sinking down onto the couch, her legs pulled up beneath her, she grabbed the pillow nearby.  She buried her face in it, soaking it.

When her shoulders finally stopped shaking from her sobs, she sat up, falling back against the cushions.  He’d left her.  She was trying to understand how he could do that after what they’d shared.  “Was I not good?” she questioned aloud.  But shook her head, no, she knew that wasn’t true at all.  It had nothing to do with the act itself.  It hadn’t been a casual encounter.  Remembering his caresses, his hesitant, humble worship of her during the night, she could feel his love.  She had known once he touched her that she loved him.  She was so sure he felt the same.  She knew it had been exceptional – extraordinary – she knew it.  “Then why did he leave?” she cried, throwing the pillow across the room, the tears once more spilling from her eyes, “Why does everyone leave?”

Buffy remembered being wrapped in his arms.  She belonged there.  She realized now it was his love that had made her feel safe … wanted.  Even when he was fast asleep he’d held her tight.  She wanted so badly for him to be there, holding her, just holding her, as he had.  She pushed herself up off the couch and moved towards the closet by the front door.  Opening it, she reached in and searched through the hangers on the rack and found what she was looking for.  She wrapped herself in the leather jacket Angel had given her a few months before.  He had refused to take it back though she’d offered a few times.  Now she was glad she had it.  He had hurt her, but she still needed some small part of him.  Settling back onto the couch, she drew her legs up to her chest.  She adjusted the jacket, feeling the phantom arms filling it and the scent that enveloped her.  It was chocolate.  She closed her eyes and let the memories wash through her.

When he kissed her she melted into liquid, he poured himself into her, blending with her.  His hands everywhere she needed to feel them, touching, stroking, tracing, smoothing.  She felt his skin under her fingers and the shivers that ran through him from her touch.  She had been hungry for him.  Her hands and lips had wandered up and down his large frame, his neck, his beautiful chest, his shoulders.  His muscles had rippled and flexed as his moved around her, above her, within her.  When he was buried inside her, as deep as she could pull him, it felt so right.  He should be there.

She opened her eyes and looked at the window, rain still running in rivulets down the pane.  Did that have something to do with it? She wondered.  She wanted to believe that, thinking of what the storms did to him.  It was better than the alternative.  But she couldn’t convince herself of it.  No, she thought wearily, it wasn’t any different … it was her.  Buffy didn’t know what it was she kept doing wrong, but everyone left.

Giving up the safety of the couch, she held the jacket around her like a shield and dragged herself to the kitchen.  Her gaze fell on the refrigerator.  She didn’t want solid food, the idea alone almost gagged her.  Without thought, she pulled the basket out on the coffeemaker, scooping in coffee from the nearby canister.  Automatically filling the water reservoir, she started the machine with barely a glance.  She wandered over by the window, looking out without seeing.  Crossing her arms, she unconsciously shrugged closer inside the protective leather mantle.

The rain, still falling from dingy, tattered clouds, tapped harshly against the glass, breaking her reverie.  Picking up a cloth near the sink, she absently cleaned the countertop.  With thoughts far away, it was the sugar bowl left out of place that reminded her of the coffee.  As if being played like a puppet on strings, she found a cup, filled it, spooned sugar in and stirred.  She came back to herself with a start, cup in hand, feeling slightly out of synch.  Attempting to shake off the dazed feeling, she wandered back to the couch, setting the mug down nearby, untouched.  Buffy tried not to think or remember, just to let the numbness wrap around her like his jacket.  It didn’t work.  Her thoughts strayed back, they wouldn’t go away.

She had missed Pike terribly when she didn’t see him anymore.  Her father had left her feeling bruised.  This hurt her far worse than anything either of them could have done.

As soon as she knew she loved Angel … he was gone.  Once one tear fell, she couldn’t seem to stop crying.  Couldn’t stop hurting.  She couldn’t do this again.  Every time she let someone in, let someone get close, she ended up alone.  What was it about her?  Buffy wasn’t cold, but she hugged Angel’s jacket a little tighter, scrunching her legs up under it, resting her forehead on her knees.

*****

He didn’t open his eyes.  He didn’t want to see.  Buffy wasn’t there.  Not in his bed.  Not in his house.  Not in his life.  ‘I want my life to be with you,’ he whispered to the face etched behind his eyes.  A single tear trailed down.

She’d never been in his bed or his house.  But it wasn’t the physical space.  She was in his heart.  In his soul.  She was in every corner of him.  Angel knew she would be everywhere he looked without her ever having set foot in his door.  How was he supposed to put her out of his life when she was the very one he needed to live it?

When he did finally find the strength to raise his eyelids, the first sight was the rain beating down, splattering against the window.  His heart twisted as did his lips.  He hadn’t even noticed the storm. The empty bark of his laughter matched the mirthless imitation of his smile.  The irony hit him like an anvil.  He thought by now he knew all about pain, had visited every facet of it.  But what he’d felt before, still deep and wounding, had dulled over the years.  And he’d learned to live with it.  The storms had only exacerbated it.  But this, this was so much worse.  It was a different agony altogether.  It cut to his soul, sheering through every vein within him.  He was almost surprised when he looked away from the rain and down at himself that he wasn’t bleeding.

Last night, for the first time in his life, he had felt like a normal man.  For a few brief amazing hours he had found what it felt like to be alive.  To feel love.  Now he knew what he was missing.  Staring at the hands that had held everything he hadn’t even known existed, he softly cried to them, ‘How am I supposed to go on, knowing what we had?  What we could have had?’  The fingers formed into fists.  Could have, if he wasn’t who he was, didn’t carry what he did.  If another storm hadn’t reminded him with a vengeance of just what he was … or wasn’t.  He wondered fleetingly if knowing her a few years ago would have made a difference.  No, losing his mind as he did, he was glad he had spared her that.  Both of their lives would have been worse.  He couldn’t lay the question or burden of what he was on anyone else, especially her.  He wasn’t a normal man.  He never had been.  It had taken so little to prove he wasn’t worthy of even being near Buffy.

Angel finally crawled across the bed, forcing himself to sit up.  His toes touched the shirt he had pulled off and thrown on the floor the previous night.  Gathering it up and pressing it to his face he could smell her scent.  He heard her light, breathy voice telling him he smelled like chocolate.  He slid the shirt on and buttoned it, breathing in to keep her close.  He pulled on the pants lying nearby and lurched to a stand to finish drawing them up to fasten them.

He ended up in the kitchen, going through the motions of making coffee without quite knowing how he got there.  He watched water pour itself into the machine and coffee fall in the little basket.  His hands were making the movements but they didn’t feel connected.

His gaze caught the small bottle of medicine he’d left in a corner weeks before, abandoned, no longer needing to find all his strength in its contents.  There was nothing man had devised that could lessen or heal the pain he felt now.

The storm had darkened the morning sky to a dull, thick gray, shrouding the house in its mist.  Angel realized after a time that he’d been staring out the windowpane, eyes tracing the rain down its cold surface.  He didn’t know how long he stood there, but the coffee was done brewing, the carafe full.  He hadn’t even smelled it, still washed in the lingering fragrance of vanilla.  He turned off the machine, filling a cup from the cabinet with the steaming liquid and shuffled towards the living room.  He reached the fireplace and sagged into his chair gazing at the charred remains of the last fire.

He would have stayed there as he was, like a rag doll carelessly tossed down, but the cold forced him to his feet once more.  Lighting the fire after building the pile of kindling and logs, he fell back into his seat.  The small effort had drained the last of his energy.  For hours he laid inert, not a muscle moved even towards the coffee, cold and forgotten by his side.  The fire warmed him, but his mind numbed as the time passed.  It slowly shut down against the onslaught of images and thoughts that endlessly chased and taunted him.  The tongues of heat that sizzled in front of him morphed into tender flames of soft skin and softer moans that soothed him.  He slept, his features dropping into repose, at rest if only for a while.

When he turned his head to the chair beside his, he expelled his breath in a ragged cry.  There, a familiar form was curled in a ball; long flaxen hair against skin flushed by passion, eyes he knew were green, closed in slumber above lips bruised red with love.  Angel started suddenly, shaking as the dream melted.  The chair sat empty as it had always been.

His long frame was stiff from lying so long in his chair.  The small respite gave him no peace once he was awake.  He dragged himself up and stretched, trying to get the feeling back in his limbs.  He looked at the clock on the mantle and sighed, thinking of the many hours he still needed to fill.  The last ‘Annie’ had drifted away leaving behind a trail of chill dampness, but the room seemed crowded, pushing against him.  He found a pair of shoes in the closet and put them on.  Grabbing his leather jacket from its hook near the door and his keys on the table below it, he left his refuge behind him.

After walking for hours, trying to blank his thoughts and failing miserably, he stopped in a diner for food.  He had no taste for anything, no inclination to eat.  He only choked the food down to quell the hunger his body told him was there.  Never realizing how far away he had wandered, he trudged back home.  He collapsed on his bed, not willing to remove his shirt, too tired to bother with the rest and let exhaustion overtake him.

The next day was no better.  Angel was restless and tense.  He found himself in front of the bookcases, pulling the volumes out one by one, cleaning and rearranging.  Their familiar weight and texture didn’t impart their usual comfort.  But, he desperately needed the distraction, even if it occupied only his hands, not his mind.

He’d hurt her … again, only this was so much worse.  He’d left without a word and hadn’t called her since then to explain.  What would he have said if he could have found the courage to even pick up the phone?  Tell her he was sorry he’d made love to her?  He knew he should be, but he wasn’t.  He hadn’t been able to maintain control and for that he was sorry … for her, not himself.  It was the most wondrous thing he’d ever experienced – perfect – if it hadn’t resulted in wounding her.  Not for the world would he give up what he shared with her.

Try as he might he couldn’t stay the sweet stream of memories of her touch, her feel, the sounds she made, the taste of her on his lips.  That curious fire that fused them and the way they molded together as if they were one.  He couldn’t stop his body responding, growing painfully hard.  He dropped the books in his hands, guilt and shame washing over him.  Roughly dragging his fingers through his hair, he bent his head, then laced his fingers over it.  He didn’t know how to get Buffy out of his mind … and he didn’t really want to, regardless of how it tortured him.  Angel finally forced himself back to the task at hand, despite the pathetic attempt he knew it to be.

When he reached the poetry books, he pulled out the overflowing portfolio with trembling hands.  He knew it would only deepen the ache in his heart, but couldn’t stop himself from studying every single drawing.  He turned each page slowly, drinking in every facet of the face he loved, tracing a finger more than once down a beloved line or curve.  He finally slid the album back in its place with a long agonized sigh.

He sat on the floor, surrounded by the stacks that had provided the only protection he had ever found.  His own manufactured cocoon.  Now he saw how fragile it had always been, but it was all he had.  He knew he couldn’t have the life he longed for, the one he had just put away on the shelf interwoven with the drawings.  Picking up a book, he brushed the dust away with a cloth.  He had to rebuild that other life again – the cold, empty one that was so much colder and emptier than it had ever been.

As he continued through the shelves, deliberately and methodically, he thought about the next day and steeled himself for what was to come.  No matter how badly his heart cried against it, he was doing the right thing.  She didn’t know, couldn’t understand and didn’t deserve to be sucked into the mire that had held him his entire life.

Nothing would have ever made him ready for Buffy.  He had no words from the poetry he’d memorized to give him answers.  No facts and figures in his books to tell him what to do.  He was at a loss.  He had no concept of how she felt or why.  He’d never been in any relationship and he didn’t know how to deal with it.  He had nothing with which to compare it.  He just didn’t know!  All he knew was that he loved her and because he did, he had to stay away.  He had to stop while he had the strength to be able to and before she was injured more.  He tried not to think about how hard it would be to tell her something he still couldn’t even put in words.  Tried not to think of that face, those eyes piercing straight into his soul.

*****

Buffy spent Saturday afternoon moping on the couch until she forced herself up.  She washed, and dusted, and mopped – as she always did when she was upset, thinking at least that she was on the clean side of misery.  At two a.m. she found herself sitting in front of her oven door, her tears mixing with the oven cleaner.  No matter how busy she kept her hands, her mind never stopped reminding her how much her heart was breaking.  She gave up on the stove, suddenly identifying to a frightening degree with Sylvia Plath.

Feeling a weariness beyond the physical, she fell into her bed.  Whatever tears hadn’t been shed seeped through as she wrapped herself in her sheets … and in Angel’s scent that permeated them.  In spite of all her cleaning, she hadn’t had the strength to change them, thinking he was still there in some way.  Besides his jacket, it was all she had and she clung to it.  She could feel every gentle kiss, every tender caress he’d given her.  His trembling response wherever she touched him had thrilled her.  She had never felt such a feeling of joy like that.  She had never felt as though someone was so much a part of her as he was when he filled her.  She had surrounded him and drawn him as close as she could, as if to merge them into one.  Crying softly, she finally slipped into unconsciousness, her pillow drenched with tears.

*****

She was up very early the next morning, not willing to repeat her actions of the day before.  She showered and dressed quickly, eager to put as much distance as possible between the apartment, especially the phone, and her.

She thought about going to Willow’s, but didn’t want to intrude on her and Tara in the early morning hours.  To be honest, she didn’t know if she was ready to see the two of them, knowing they would be rising from the same bed.  Buffy wasn’t a prude, but the concept of Willow being in a relationship with Tara was still fairly new, even if they had been living together for a while now.  It was like getting used to wearing a new pair of shoes and they didn’t feel all that comfortable yet.  And it reminded her all too painfully of waking in her own bed … alone.

Instead, she got in her car and pointed it in the one direction she knew she could find solace, at least for a time.  Two hours later she swung the car into the driveway and saw by the dashboard clock it was still very early, not even seven a.m..  Buffy opened the kitchen door with her key, trying not to make any noise.  She needn’t have worried.  Peeking into the room, she found herself locked in Giles’ surprised, but gentle gaze.

At the sound of the lock being turned he had lifted his head from the tea he was pouring.  He put the cozy on the teapot and stepped around the counter.  “To what do I owe this honor?” he asked, mouth curving in a welcoming smile.  Closer to her by this time, he caught the dark smudges under her red-rimmed eyes.  Giles had never been the demonstrative type, but at the look of abject misery on her face he couldn’t help but open his arms, offering to draw her near.

Buffy didn’t need any more invitation.  She had spent the drive home replaying the whole night with Angel over and over again only to feel more hurt and confused by the mile.  She laid her head against Giles chest, glad for his unquestioning understanding and consolation.  Still, she wished for the hard muscular pillow her cheek on rested upon from what already seemed like a lifetime ago and it made her feel that much worse.  Giles let her stay there for long moments then finally guided her into the living room, to the couch.

“I’m sorry, Giles,” she said, her eyes tracing the pattern on the cushions.  “Guess I need to work on my hellos,” she apologized, finally looking at him, forcing a watery smile on her face.

Falling back in his usual stance, he cleared his throat and said, “I suppose you’ll want coffee instead of a real drink.”

“Coffee would be of the good right now,” she answered thankfully. “And lots of sugar,” the light banter strengthening her smile.  Buffy let herself relax, sinking into the couch, idly scanning the room while she heard Giles puttering in the kitchen.

Giles knew Buffy well enough to know that whatever brought her home must be serious.  She was the type who people usually ran to for comfort and guidance, not the other way around.  It warmed his heart that she had sought him out when she needed someone.  He didn’t know what it was, but knew she would tell him in her own good time.  If he had to guess though, he wagered it involved matters of the heart.

Joyce had told him years ago the little she knew of what happened with Buffy and her friend Pike.  Giles had been a witness to the failed relationship the young girl had tried so hard to have with her father.  He knew few things cut as deeply as the way the boy, then Buffy’s father had abandoned her.  In all the years he’d lived with her he knew she’d never become close to anyone she dated, not close enough to get hurt.  He surmised if it was about a man, he must have made a great impression indeed to have that kind of effect on her.

Bringing the tray in and settling it on the table before them, he filled a cup with the aromatic, dark liquid then offered it to her.  Still smiling at him, she made a show of adding spoonfuls of sugar and stirring.

“At least,” he told her, returning her smile, “it’s not a good cup of tea that you’re ruining.”

She sipped the hot beverage carefully and set it down on the tray.  “I guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” she said.

“You don’t need a reason to come home,” Giles answered softly.

The words brought tears to her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.  She picked the coffee back up and slowly sipped, holding the cup for warmth.  She tried to gather her thoughts, but ended up blurting out, “I seem to do all too well in the ‘love ‘em and leave ‘em department.  Only I’m not the one leaving,” she admitted woefully.  “I’m sorry, Giles,” she said looking at the concern on his face, “I shouldn’t be bothering you.  I should figure things out by myself.”

“No man is an island, Buffy,” he gently answered.

She gave a sad facsimile of a laugh, “That’s exactly my problem,” she ruefully confessed, “I think I’m in love with an island.”

Giles didn’t reply, waiting for her to go on.

“Oh, God, I feel like I’m the living version of a lovelorn column.  But I swear, I didn’t go looking for someone to fall in love with.”  She thought about that and slowly added, “I know he didn’t.”  She turned to look at Giles’ face, “You probably didn’t expect that, did you?”

“I’m not as shocked as you seem to think I should be,” he said.  At her surprised look, he asked, “Why shouldn’t you fall in love?  And why shouldn’t someone love you?  You’re a very beautiful, very wonderful woman.”

Buffy blushed slightly, not used to Giles being that directly complimentary.  Even though she’d made straight for Giles and home, like an arrow released from a bow, she hadn’t envisioned sharing any of this with him.  But in spite of her reaction to his remark, she found it wasn’t all that difficult to have this discussion, though she knew it wouldn’t be as easy with anyone else, except maybe Willow.

“I thought he loved me,” she said slowly, “until he left.”

When she didn’t add anymore, Giles asked, “Did he say why he left?”

“No,” came the almost whispered reply, “I haven’t heard from him.”

“Maybe there’s more to it than loving you,” he suggested.  “Or maybe it’s because he loves you.”

“Yeah,” she said sadly, “loving me could do that.”

He gave her an admonishing look, “You think you’re hard to love?  I can assure you it’s quite the opposite.”

“I think you might be biased,” she told him with the shadow of a smile.

“It might help if I knew a little bit more about him,” Giles urged her.

She gave the same hollow laugh, “Me too.”  Seeing him still waiting for an answer, she gave him one of sorts.  “I work with him.  I’ve been working with him for months.  We share an office with each other.”

“You’ve gotten to know him then?” he prodded when she stopped and remained quiet.

Buffy looked down at her hands clasped in her lap.  “I thought I knew him a little at least,” she said in a small voice.  “He’s not Joe-here’s-what-I’m-thinking, but I thought I knew.  I- w-we had a date and we ended up spending the night together, but when I woke up in the morning, he was gone.”

Giles didn’t need or want details into either Dawn’s or Buffy’s sex lives, had in fact, tried to avoid the idea either of them had one.  He had always felt like a father towards them, so the subject had always been uncomfortable at best.  But his immediate reaction to Buffy’s confession was anger at a man, any man, taking advantage of her like that and just deserting her.

“So he led you on.  He asked you out, told you he loved you, stayed the night and uh … then left?” Giles got more upset with each word he spoke.

“No, Giles, he’s not like that,” she tried to explain, shaking her head.  “Guess it would have helped to start at the beginning instead of the end, huh?”

Trying to calm down, he waited to hear what she had to say.

“Look, Giles, I appreciate you being all protective, but the truth is, Angel, never said or did anything to lead me on,” she said slowly, “In fact, he hardly ever talks to anyone.  He wouldn’t talk to me until I didn’t give him any choice.  You know how persuasive I can be,” she smiled at him.  “He’s had some … umm … problems, I dunno, something that happened way before I met him.”  She sighed,  “And you know me, never could resist a challenge.  I’m the one who’s to blame if anyone is.”

Giles’ initial response was, “Angel?”

Buffy shook her head again, “See what I mean?  That’s not his real name, I call him that.  It wasn’t his idea.”  Though now that she thought about it, she realized Angel had never said a word against it ever since she told him that’s what she would call him.  She took a small, sad comfort in that.

“So you forced him to have sex with you?” he asked a bit acerbically.  He was trying to be patient, but it did seem to be asking a lot of him.

“It wasn’t like that at all,” she said quickly, then more slowly, “I came to the realization that I liked him, really liked him and I asked him out, not the other way around.  I had to argue with him just to get him to go.  The rest just kind of happened, it wasn’t something either of us planned.”

“Buffy…” Giles began, but she hadn’t finished.

“It wasn’t just sex, Giles, we made love.  And it’s the first time that ever happened to me.  God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.  You’re like my father … more of a father than the real one ever was.”

Giles couldn’t help but smile at her.  “I’ve always thought of you as my daughter, both you and Dawn,” he said softly.

“You don’t know how glad I am you’re here,” she told him.  “Even if my face is an unbecoming shade of red right now.  Don’t you think,” she asked him earnestly, “that I know the difference between having sex and making love?”

“I would think you do,” he agreed.  “I know you don’t take relationships lightly.  I’ve never known you to be seriously involved with anyone.”

“And I never thought I would be,” she replied.  “That just kind of happened too.”

“So he told you he loved you … and then left?” he questioned her, still trying to get the facts straight.

“No, he didn’t say he did.  I just knew, at least I thought he did.  Everything is so jumbled up now.”  In a moment of sheer honesty that she couldn’t suppress she told him, “I could feel how much he loved me and I knew I loved him.  And when I woke up in the morning and he was gone, it hurt.  It hurts so bad.”

The tears fell at her words and Giles found himself patting her back only a bit awkwardly, whispering shushing noises in her ear.  Difficult as it was, he was still trying to give this unknown man in Buffy’s life the benefit of doubt rather than the unpleasant alternative.  Buffy had always been a good judge of character.  He hoped that for her sake it was true in this case.  He also knew despite her tribulations with this unknown ‘Angel’, that a good deal of Buffy’s issues had older roots.

“Buffy,” he said softly when she sat back wiping her eyes, embarrassed by her own outburst, “I’m not an expert on these matters, but maybe all that’s needed is time.  I can’t imagine what they might be, but perhaps, Angel, as you call him, had good reasons for not staying.  And don’t be so ready to blame yourself, especially when you don’t have all the facts.”

Even to him it didn’t sound that convincing, but he knew she had to find her own way.  Giles wanted to tell her not to base her feelings on a couple of no-accounts who didn’t realize what a special person she was, but was afraid it would only make her more miserable than she already was.  He wished that Joyce was still alive and here with them.  She would have known what to say and do.  All he could offer was his love.  It would have to be enough for now.

“Thanks, Giles,” she replied.  It still hurt, terribly, but his presence softened the loneliness she had been feeling.  She knew he didn’t have any more answers than she did, but she loved him for trying.

She’d gotten very little sleep the night before.  The trip there, the conversation and freshest round of tears had tired her out.  When Giles gently pushed her shoulder back, urging her to lie down on the couch and had covered her with an afghan, she didn’t resist.

She was surprised to find it was late afternoon when she finally woke up.  She stayed long enough to have dinner with Giles then waved a fond goodbye to him as she pulled her car out on the street and headed back to her lonely apartment.  Even driving, every time she saw a tall figure or a dark-haired head she would look more closely before catching herself.  No matter what she did or where she went, Angel was there.  There was no getting away.

Buffy looked at the answering machine as soon as she opened her front door.  Its smug no message light silently mocked her.  She dropped her keys on the table near the door and hung her jacket in the closet.  Seeing Angel’s jacket where she’d hung it earlier, she started to reach for it, smelling the leather and the man to whom it belonged.  But, she forced herself away and slammed the door shut.

She didn’t need to hold something of his.  It wasn’t like she was some high school girl, mooning over a guy in science class.  ‘I’m an adult,’ she told herself.  She’d been out with guys and it hadn’t worked out, she’d even been stood up on occasion.  It wasn’t like she was a virgin, that she’d never had sex with anyone.  But she hadn’t loved any of them, nor had they made love to her.  The tears that suddenly threatened infuriated her even more.  She refused to give in to them.

He didn’t love her.  She had been mistaken that night.  If he loved her, she couldn’t fathom how he could leave and not say a word, not even call.  She had stayed in the whole day and night before, afraid to miss the phone ringing.  But like the answering machine today, it had stayed silent.

Now as she stood in her living room, the more she stared at the phone and the non-blinking light on the machine, the angrier she became.  At least he could have called her, said something, even if it was a lie.  Thinking of seeing Angel the next morning, she tried to keep up the anger, it was easier to deal with than the pain.  She slept fitfully, not looking forward to going to work or dealing with Angel.

[end chapter 8]

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