• Troublesome • Rhett x Reader •

• Chapter Twenty Seven •

The sun begins to lower under the California horizon.

My dad says his goodbyes as he heads off to do whatever he does. I lay in my bed, mindlessly drifting away into whatever infomercial is playing on my old TV.

My phone resides on my nightstand, occasionally vibrating with a phone call for a while and then falling quiet and still once again.

The calls start frequent, but diminish over the course of the day.

They had found my social media handles and began tagging me in stuff. In long, angry threads about how horrible I am. Specifically me.

With every insult thrown in my direction, a newfound resent towards Rhett grows bigger and bigger deep within my chest.

How careless of him to do this to me and Jessie. To his fans. To the crew. To everyone who will have to deal with the publicity fallout.

No. How careless of me.

How careless of me to allow him to woo me and catch my feelings without setting that boundary out of self respect. And now I'm paying for it. Along with everyone else. This is my fault, isn't it?

Sometimes it feels like everything is.

Maybe if I had been more stern with Rhett.

Maybe if I knew how to verbalize my concerns and my hesitance.

Maybe if I hadn't swerved into traffic in a suicidal rage and shattered my leg.

Maybe if I had been nicer to my mother.

Maybe this is my karma. Maybe this is how I deserve to feel.

Fuck this.... this is all of my fault. Nicole warned me and I didn't listen. It's because I'm fucking stupid, isn't it? He was probably lying to me about the divorce too.

I'm one of those women. The homewrecker. The one who foolishly believes a man who insists they're getting a separation. That it's okay to be with them because their wife doesn't care. That they're "in the process of getting a divorce." And I believe it because I'm just that desperate for affection and gratification. I crave it. I must be some kind of egomaniac.

I stand up, planting both feet firmly on the floor, and set course for the bathroom. Without thinking, I begin running a bath. Not sure of what my intentions are. To soothe myself?

Who cares?

I spend fifteen minutes staring blankly into the water as it slowly rises. I lose focus and before I know it, the water is nearly level with the sides of the tub.

I begin to step out of my clothes before ultimately giving up when I have only my underwear on. I step into the tub and the water threatens to overflow.

Lowering the entirety of my body into the scolding water causes gallons of it to begin rapidly pouring out of the tub and onto the bathroom floor, pushing the bathroom rug and the trash bin across the tile and settling against the bathroom door.

My head is submerged. Finally, as though my brain is somewhere outside of my body and can be silenced by the water, everything is quiet again. I just want this quiet.

Muffled noises from downstairs ripple through the water. Dad must be home.

No, that's knocking. So Nicole is back for more.

Or dad got locked out.

I get out of the tub, dripping wet, grab my robe and walk out of the bathroom towards the front door. The knocking gradually gets more intense, as does the stream of water I'm carelessly trailing across the floor.