Sebastian
ThesecondIsawthat guy put his hand on her thigh, it was all I could focus on. How dare he touch her? No one is allowed to touch her but me. Fuck. I shouldn't fucking care.
I watch Mary storm through the crowd of people toward the backyard. The need to follow her consumes me, and my brain and logical reasoning are at odds over what’s right and wrong in this situation. Instead of following her, I head toward the kitchen in search of another beer. I haven’t drunk this much in months, but I need something to take the edge off.
Partygoers sway to the club songs blaring through the speakers. Some of the guys nod their heads in my direction as I walk by. At the same time, the girls’ eyes sparkle with desire, as if any of them have a chance.
Beer in hand, I give in to the need to see her and head toward the backyard to see what kind of trouble the Little Rebel is getting herself into. I fight the smile threatening to pull at mylips, thinking about how much she hated it when I called her that.
Throughout the years, she quickly earned her nickname—helping me pull pranks on our foster parents, and once everyone was asleep, I’d sneak over to her room to laugh about it until we passed out.
From a distance, I watch as she leans against the fence by herself on the other side of the yard. A few people try to strike up a conversation, but she shuts them down.
My jaw clenches as I fight the desire to be close to her.
She’s everywhere I turn.
At every party.
At school.
Everywhere I go, Mary is there.
Her closeness brings a weight in my chest that I can’t seem to shake.
She was everything I ever thought I wanted.
Until she wasn’t.
I've forced myself to stay clear of her to the best of my ability, but it's proven to be a struggle. The people closest to you always cause the most profound hurt.
She doesn't notice me, not yet. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, and it almost makes me wonder if she's holding herself together with nothing but stubbornness. The way she snaps back at anyone who gets too close, as if she's trying to build a wall—brick by brick—until no one can get in.
But underneath it all, I see it. The way her eyes dart, restless, like she's already planning her escape. She shifts from one foot to the other. She's not just being difficult; she feels cornered, even out in the open.
I should look away. Give her the space she's asking for without demanding it. But I don't. I keep watching, even when shebites out something rude to some asshole who tries to start a conversation with her.
It's easier for her to be angry than afraid, and that's something I've learned all too well. And still, for whatever fucking reason, I want to walk over there, to see what she'd do if it were me who approached. It would probably end with her hand across my cheek, but I'd take it at this point—any reason to feel her skin again.
I have to remind myself that I can't stand her. It's the same story I tell myself every damn day. And yet I can't take my fucking eyes off her. I should enjoy the way she isolates herself, digging her own grave. But instead, I watch, noticing the tremor in her hands as she stands there. The stiffness in her shoulders looks less like arrogance and more like armor.
I fucking hate that I notice.
I hate that I can't stop.
She turns her head, scanning the crowd, and for a moment, I think she might catch me watching. Which, honestly, I don't fucking care if she does. I want her to know I'm watching her every move.
But part of me feels like I'm doing something wrong, and my chest tightens. And maybe because I am. Like stalking my ex, who I'm supposed to hate.
And that's the damn problem. The next time I look up, she’s already gone.
The smoke from the joint in my hand swirls and dances in the air, mirroring the chaos within my mind. With each exhale, I try to blow her memory from my mind.
Every flashback, every encounter we’ve had… I want it all to go away.
Throwing the half-smoked joint to the ground, I step on it.
I turn to head back inside when some dumb fuck smacks right into me, his drink sloshing all over my shirt.
