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As I scanned it, my insides instantly pitched with a horrible, ugly feeling.
You don’t need to wait up for me.
That’s code for he’s staying the night.
That’s code for sex.
And hell, I told him to do it.
I told him to go out with her.
So I have absolutely no right to feel like my organs are suffocating and withering to dust right now. It’s embarrassing. It’s weak and pitiful.
And for what?
Why do I even feel this way?
Brant deserves to find happiness with someone. I have no claim over him, even though it feels like he’s tethered to me in the most profound, all-consuming way. I love him more than I love breathing. He knows every dent and divot in my heart, and he knows how each one got there. He’s tasted my tears and silenced my fears.
But he’s not mine.
I have no reason to feel jealous.
And yet hot tears slice at my eyes as I shove my cell phone into my back pocket.
I’m a hypocrite, too, because I kissed a man over Christmas break when Celeste came into town to visit her family. She hosted a holiday party, and I made out with her cousin Aaron in the upstairs bathroom.
It wasn’t enjoyable.
His tongue was sloppy, his hands clumsy.
He smelled like fried fish.
And the moment he tried to sneak his fingers into my underwear, I shoved him away, lying about being on my period.
The truth was I just wasn’t into it. I tried to be, but ever since the prom, my body hasn’t responded to men in the same way that it used to; my sensuality has dwindled into ash.
I’m broken.
A knock sounds on my bedroom door, startling me. I swipe the remnants of tears off my cheeks and move to open it.
Mom stands on the other side, hair in her typical messy bun with a pen stuck inside, and wearing white robe. Her eyes pan to my overnight bags that are brimful in the center of the room. “Where are you going?”
“I, um…” I fluster, sweeping my hair over to one side. “Remember how I told you I was thinking about rooming with someone?”
She frowns. “Yes. You told me Genevieve asked you to move in with her, but you couldn’t afford it.”
“Right. I can’t…so, someone else offered.”
Her “Mom eyebrow” rises.
I bite my lip. “Brant offered.”
“Brant?” Mom tugs the ties of her robe, then crosses her arms, leaning against the doorjamb. Her blue eyes flicker with confusion. “When did this happen? Why are your bags already packed and I’m just now hearing about it?”
Because I’m being dramatic and impulsive. “I’m just going to stay for a couple of nights to see if it’s a smooth transition. I was going to talk to you before I left.”
My mother has always had that uncanny sense of something not being right. She calls it a motherly intuition, while I tend to lean more toward the voodoo or witchcraft angle.
