“I’m sorry,” I try to say, but my tongue feels thick, my mouth glued with the taste of iron.
I’m sorry, I loved you.
The words stay trapped behind my teeth as my vision tilts and goes dark at the corners.
“Preston, no! Baby…baby…baby…no!”
I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry.
Seems that’s what I can do best. Just apologize like my parents.
I’m sorry I ruined your life just like I ruined mine, Marcus.
Turns out, I’m the one saying goodbyeafter all.
33
MARCUS
Ihate my birthdays.
I’ve always fuckinghatedmy goddamn birthdays, and despite Mom’s attempts to cheer me up during them, I’ve wanted to forget them.
But now, I feel like I’ll never forget my birthday.
On my twenty-second birthday, Preston was shot.
It happened right before my eyes, but I couldn’t stop it.
I could only stand there and watch as a bullet ripped through his chest.
It almost feels surreal. Just minutes ago, he was so touchy and close to Violet and Dahlia.
Yes, I was there most of the time, leaning my back against a tree and watching him like I usually do when he shuts me out.
It’s a sickness, maybe, a desire for something unattainable. The more I can’t have him, the more my entire being roars to life,needingto reach him.
Toxic, yes, but I never claimed to be a saint.
And no, there’s no reality where Preston belongs to someone other than me.
If anything, I’ve been having these thoughts lately—like I should’ve pursued him since that first college league game weplayed three years ago. The first time this little rivalry turned into something more.
Or maybe I should’ve started in high school. When Preston really looked at me, and I meanlookedat me, after that time when we were kids. The first time he noticed me, when he put me on his shit list and vowed to bring me down.
The first time hesawme.
Sure, he only saw me as an opponent he needed to crush, an adversary, a challenge—because he loves his challenges, my Preston.
Back then, I should’ve shot my shot.
Should’ve made him mine and never let him go.
Maybe that way, I wouldn’t have suffered through average sex and a lack of emotional connection.
Maybe, by now, he would’ve been comfortable enough with me to tell me what the fuck terrorizes him when he closes his eyes at night.
