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“Good for you,” he says. “And way too late. You wanted fun. I don’t think this qualifies. So get out. Do what you do best. Run away.”
“Fuck you,” I say, and something in my voice breaks. Something inside me breaks. “Fuck you.” I push him, and he stumbles back against the counter. “Fuck you,” I say once more. “If you want me to go, you’ll have to end this. You’ll have to end us. So go ahead. Tell me you don’t want me. Tell me you don’t need me. Tell me you don’t love me.”
He’s a ticking time bomb. He’ll explode and take us down with him.
“Tell me,” I repeat. “I fucking dare you to end us.”
He drags both his hands through his hair.
“Just go!” he bellows. “Get the fuck out!”
“You go!” I shout back. “You get the fuck out!”
“It’s my home!”
“Oh? Well, look at that. I just moved in. Now it’s my home, too. You get the fuck out.”
His shocked expression would be downright comical if I wasn’t goddamn livid.
“The fuck?” he sputters.
“Yeah,” I say with a determined nod. “You know what? Right now, I don’t want you here. Because you’re being an asshole, and if you’re being an asshole, I don’t want you in my home. This house has a no-assholes policy. So get out.”
I push his shoulder, and he stumbles. I snap up his crutches and thrust them toward him, and he blinks and takes them, and I push at his shoulder again and then his back, and I take advantage of the flabbergasted daze of surprise he’s swimming through and push him out of the apartment.
“My Ryker can come back in here. This asshole isn’t welcome,” I snap and slam the door shut in his face.
The quiet of the apartment is disorienting as shit. I swallow hard. Slump against the door. My back slides against the cold surface as I slowly sit down on the floor. My heart is beating like crazy in my throat, and I can’t seem to breathe or swallow. My ears are ringing.
I put my arms on my bent knees and hide my face in them.
Fuck!
LAKE
I wake up with first gray, rainy light of the morning. The room is still dim, the curtains half drawn. I don’t remember when, exactly, but at some point, I’ve dragged myself into bed.
I’m alone.
My heart jumps into my throat again, and I sit up.
There’s a sliver of light coming from beneath the bathroom door. I get up, pull on a pair of sweats, and silently walk to the door.
I don’t hear anything, so eventually I softly rap my knuckles against the door twice. I’m not even sure there’s anybody there.
There’s a second of silence and then a hoarse, “It’s open.”
I find Ryker sitting on the floor, back against the wall. My eyes immediately zero in on the crumpled up pieces of toilet paper, dotted red, on the floor around his foot.
Ryker has his head tipped back, and he’s staring at the ceiling.
“I stepped on a piece of porcelain,” he says and winces. “I think it’s still in there.”
I go and grab the first aid kit before I sit down in front of him and gently lift his leg into my lap. I pull the small, sharp shard out. The wound doesn’t seem to be too deep, and it’s not bleeding that much anymore either. I clean the cut and put a bandage on it before I rest his foot in my lap.
I don’t move and neither does he.
It takes a long time for him to lower his gaze from the ceiling and look at me.
