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“Home for a while. Take some time. Figure out what’s next.”
I can’t speak. My throat is officially closed. I don’t like this. This is no fucking good, and I’m actually scared. He’s one of my only allies—the only person outside of Elodie and my family who knows what I’m dealing with, who accepts it and sort of even supports me. Not that I’m trying to make this all about me—obviously he’s miserable—but still. This isn’t okay. “I don’t want you to go.”
“You’ll be all right. Guy like you.” He smirks and rolls onto his back, his hand slipping away from mine.
I’m not touching that comment right now. “Is leaving what you want?”
“I can safely say that almost nothing that’s happened in the last twelve years has been what I want.”
The only thing keeping me from being butt hurt at that comment is he qualified it with “almost.” Which is also why I don’t stop to think about it too hard, because I’m pretty sure when he tried to strangle me, he didn’t have fucking me in mind, therefore, this wasn’t what he wanted either.
And that’s what happens when I think about something too hard. “You don’t want help,” I say, and it comes out dark. “You want to go.”
“I just want to sleep right now.”
“Fuck you,” I say quietly.
“That’s not fair, Peach.”
“Don’t call me that.”
He sighs.
I sit up and reach for my shirt, hanging on by a sleeve at the edge of the bed. He grabs my arm and pulls me back. “Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to go either.”
“What fucking difference does it make?”
“If it doesn’t make a difference, then just stay,” he says.
“Stop fucking acting like you don’t get it,” I snap at him, and he lets go of me.
As I’m turning my shirt right side out, he starts in with a spew of uncharacteristic word vomit. “I do get it. I like this. I even like you. I don’t want to just take off, but the writing’s on the wall in big red letters, and it basically says, get the fuck out, Drew. You and I weren’t supposed to happen, and you’re fucking getting married anyway. It’s not like either one of us can have a boyfriend. My family would never speak to me again, and you’d be fucked. I think even you can acknowledge that no matter how good the sex is, it’s not worth it.”
Ouch. “Let me repeat—Fuck. You.” I get out of bed and whip on my pants, then stand straight, my hair shoved back from my forehead while I pull at it from the roots as I search the floor for my other shoe.
He’s sitting up. “I didn’t say you’re not worth it.”
“Very much implied,” I mumble, but the room is small, so of course he hears me.
“Am I worth it to you?” he challenges.
I glare at him. There is only one correct answer to that question, but the consequences are dire, and I can’t tell if he’s asking out of vanity or whether he really gives a shit.
“How am I supposed to know if you’re worth it if you’re gone?”
He presses his lips together before sucking in a breath and dropping his head.
Goddamnit, I’m the one who’s supposed to be hurt here, but I hate seeing him like this. “Fuck, Drew.” I climb back on the bed until I’m kneeling in front of him. I plant my hands firmly on his shoulders. “Look at me.”
He shakes his head.
“Drew.”
He looks up at me with wet, bloodshot eyes. It nearly breaks me. “Do you like me? Really?” I whisper.
