Page 85 of Bruised

Uh… The differences between Tess and Lane are too many to name. One comes to mind above all others, though. I open my mouth, but Tess beats me to it.

“Is it because you’re not in love with me?”

“I’m not in love with him,” I say automatically, before I even have time to think.

Tess laughs. “If you’re not in love with him, then why are we even having this conversation?”

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Is she right? Am I really… in love? Is that what this is? I’ve never felt like this, so how would I know? And as much as I don’t want to believe it, what else could make me want to look into his eyes as I hold his cheeks and kiss him deeply? What else could make the world feel wrong and dull when he’s not with me?

I guess it’s true. I guess I really am in love. I’ve gone beyond a crush and into obsession territory, and now everything reminds me of him and makes me want to see him. He holds that power over me. He makes me feel out of control. But maybe that’s not as bad as I thought. In fact, I feel kind of good now that I know—now that I’ve accepted it.

He’s more than just a puppy. He’s more than just a fuck toy, but that must be how he thinks I see him. I suppose part of me wanted to see him that way, because it was easier than seeing him as a fully realized human with all that entails. It would be easier if he were just a fuck toy with no will or feelings of his own, but that wouldn’t be as fun, would it?

Maybe Tess is right. Maybe there’s relief in being vulnerable with someone. With him.

I’m in love with him, and I can only hope he’s in love with me too, even if I might have ruined it and made him think I’m an emotionless asshole. I need to show him otherwise.

Suddenly, I feel pumped and full of adrenaline, and I jump off the ottoman with renewed vigor. “Should I go right now?”

“It’s 3 AM, Mace.”

“So what?”

She raises a brow. “He’s asleep.”

“But I want to see him. I want to apologize. Now.”

“Look,” Tess says with a sigh. “It can wait until tomorrow. For now, let him sleep. You look like you need some shuteye yourself.”

I guess she’s right. I feel wired but exhausted at the same time. Part of me wants to get this over with, like ripping off a Band-Aid, but Lane deserves better than a rushed, half-assed apology.

If I wait until tomorrow, I can work out what I’m going to say beforehand so I don’t screw it up a second time. I doubt I’ll get any more chances. Lane’s sweet, but he’s not that sweet, and he shouldn’t be. He should put himself first, like a complete human being, like I am.

I just wish I hadn’t made him cry.

Ten minutes later, I lie on Tess’s couch, and despite thinking I’ll have to toss and turn for hours before falling asleep, I barely shut my eyes before I sink into dreamland—worried, sure, frightened, absolutely, but full of tentative hope as I imagine Lane in front of me.

Tomorrow, I’ll see him. Tomorrow, I’ll apologize. He can accept my apology or not—that’s his right—but I at least need to see him and try.

29. A CAUTIONARY KEEPSAKE

I wake up with a hollow ache reaching deep into my gut, and it doesn’t feel like anything will fill me back up again. Although, I suppose the thought of seeing Mason around the house today fills me with dread, so there’s that.

Oliver’s up already; I overslept. Slowly, I drag myself out of bed, put on some clothes, and wash my face. I look horrible with my eyes red and my face puffy from crying. Though I tried to keep my sobs quiet last night, the proof of my sadness is still etched into my face.

I can’t believe Mason could say those things.

“Come on, puppy. That’s not what we’re about—you know that.”

I suppose I got what I deserve for ignoring all the red flags Oliver waved in my face, and now I’m left hurting. Before Mason, my sex life left me wanting, and he more than delivered, but my love life is still as shitty as ever. Either I’m with someone who likes me but who I don’t like back, like Micah, or I’m with someone I like but who doesn’t give two shits about me, like Mason.

I go downstairs, praying not to run into him first thing. I don’t think I’d be able to stand him ignoring me right now. I’ll get no more secret touches, no smirks, no voice in my ear whispering “puppy.” Even if I did, I wouldn’t enjoy it, because now I know it means nothing to him. Just some fun. Nothing real or lasting.

Oliver stands by the stove, whistling to himself as he makes pancakes, and I almost break down crying right there and then.