Page 76 of Hunter

I took something good and turned it ugly, just like I always do.

My phone lights up on the table. For a stupid second, my heart leaps. But it’s not him. Just a spam text.

I laugh, bitter and hollow, and finish the rest of the bottle in one go.

The room spins harder. Good. I want it to spin until I can’t think about golden curls or smoke-gray eyes or the way he moaned my name. Really, I just want the blackness to come and take me under.

I stand up too fast and nearly fall. The walls tilt. I catch myself on the back of the couch and laugh again.

I should go to bed. Sleep this off. Pretend tomorrow I’ll do better. Instead, I grab my jacket and head for the door. I need to see him.

Even if it’s just from across the street. Even if I’m too drunk to say the right thing. Even if all I do is stand in the shadows like the creep I am.

The subway ride is a blur. I keep my head down, the half-empty second bottle burning a hole in my jacket pocket. Robby keeps talking the whole way, louder with every stop.

You really think he wants you back? After you held him down and made him cry? He’s probably relieved you left. Probably already texting someone else. Someone who doesn’t remind him of the past.

I get off at his stop and walk the familiar blocks on unsteady legs. The cool night air does nothing to sober me up. When I reach his building, I stop across the street, under the shadow of a closed bodega awning, just like the first time.

The lights are on in his apartment. His curtain’s wide open for anyone to see inside.

Lucy is standing in front of his television on the wall, gesturing wildly. Charlie is on his couch—I can see him from the shoulders up—and he throws his head back and laughs. It punches me straight in the gut. He’s happy.

I’m a sad drunk.

And he’s happy without me.

The sight of him laughing like that twists something ugly in my chest. I should feel glad and relieved that my fuck-up didn’t break him completely. Instead, all I feel is this hollow jealousy.

See? Robby sneers, louder than the traffic. He didn’t want you any more than I did. Laughing with his bestie like you never existed. That’s how little you meant.

I take another pull from the bottle, the liquor burning down my throat but doing nothing to quiet the voice. My vision swims. The street tilts. I lean against the bodega wall to keep from falling, eyes still glued to his window.

Charlie says something, still laughing, and Lucy sits down beside him and ruffles his curls. It’s innocent. I know it is. But the easy affection makes my stomach turn.

I watch them for what feels like hours but is probably only minutes. Charlie gets up at one point, still smiling, and disappears toward the kitchen. Lucy follows, still talking animatedly. The normalcy of it burns worse than the alcohol.

My phone feels heavy in my pocket. I pull it out with numb fingers and open our chat. The last message from him sits there unanswered.

Charlie: I’m really sorry about last night. I thought I could handle it, and I panicked. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry I ruined it.

I type something. Delete it. Type again.

Nothing feels right.

I shove the phone back in my pocket and take another drink.

Robby’s right. I ruin everything I touch. Charlie deserves to laugh like that without me around to fuck it up. He deserves someone who doesn’t pin him down and trigger his worst memories. Someone who isn’t a walking disaster with burn scars and a dead ex haunting him.

I should leave. I should go home and drink until I pass out and never come back here again.

But I stay.

I stand in the shadows like the pathetic creep I am, watching the boy I’m falling in love with be happy without me, while the bottle in my hand gets lighter and Robby laughs in my head.

When Lucy leaves, I watch her from the shadows. Then I turn my attention back to Charlie and his window. He moves over to his easel in the corner and starts taking out supplies to draw or paint with. I can see his face, at least the side profile of it. His chest rises in a deep breath I can see from here, and then he lifts his hand and starts drawing.

I lean harder against the wall, the rough brick biting into my shoulder. The healing skin there throbs in time with my heartbeat. I watch Charlie’s profile, the way his curls fall into his eyes, the small furrow of concentration between his brows. He pauses, tilts his head, then keeps going. The motion is hypnotic. Beautiful. Mine.