Page 38 of Loverboy

“You okay?” His brows drew together with worry.

A twisted sense of pleasure settled in my gut. His concern made me feel loved, and shamefully, I wanted more of it.

“Probably,” I said unconvincingly, pressing a hand to my stomach. “I think I’m gonna go lie down.”

I stood, fist pressed to my mouth. It was too much food too soon, and the ghost taste of acetaminophen crawled up my throat like psychological warfare.

“Okay.” He looked like he wanted to say more but was holding himself back.

He shouldn’t hold back. I wanted the pushing, the condescension, the judgment. I wanted it to reflect my own overwhelming intensity, so it wouldn’t feel like I was drowning alone. At least if he was pushy, I knew that he cared.

My room was silent and oppressive, and lying down only worsened the nausea. Every breath I took was cautious, the foul-tasting bile creeping up the back of my throat and teasing me with the promise of punishment for eating past my limit.

The only upside was the drowsiness, the sluggish promise of a food coma. Sleep had been impossible without my pills, but now it flirted with the edges of my vision.

I stared at the door, hoping Jasper would magically appear to pet my hair until I drifted off. Minutes passed, and he didn’t come. He had no way of knowing that I wanted him to, but his absence still made my blood run hot with irrational anger.

Why didn’t he know I needed him?

He should have followed me. He should have known I couldn’t be alone, should have known I’d spiral. Maybe he didn’t love me at all, or need me like he said he did. The thoughts were unbidden and unwanted. They clung to me as though I’d fallen into a pool fully dressed, a pair of soaking-wet clothes trying to drag me under.

Shut up.

I dug my fingers into my hair, tugging hard for that grounding physical sensation. I couldn’t let Jasper see this part of me—or maybe he already knew about it, and that’s why he didn’t come. He was already tired. Tired of the hospital visits, the texts, the self-destruction.

Sick of me.

I dragged my hands down my face, pausing to look at the scar on my palm. I rubbed my thumb over the rough skin, the tangible proof that my intrusive thoughts held no truth.

If I didn’t move, I was going to drown. The world did a disgusting spin, and I was sure all of the food I’d eaten would make a return. But the wave passed, and I staggered into the hallway.

Jasper had turned off the lights, and I swallowed the rising panic. I lifted my phone and let its glow illuminate my surroundings, which only made everything more unsettling, like it might reveal something waiting for me in the dark.

The living room was empty, the leftovers already put away. So I went to his new room and pushed the door open without knocking, the way I always used to. I’d barge into his room ten times a day when we lived together, for no reason other than to annoy the shit out of him.

He was reading. He looked up, brown eyes assessing me from behind the rims of his glasses. I don’t know why I thought he wouldn’t be there, but seeing him and knowing he hadn’t disappeared sent relief crashing over me.

“Do you need something?” he asked.

I nodded, and he gestured to the space by his feet on the bed. My limbs gave out as I sank onto the mattress, the dip beneath my weight swallowing me whole.

“You turned the lights off,” I accused.

“I did. That’s what normal people do at night.” He shook his head.

“I’m not normal.”

He gasped dramatically. “Oh, shit. Really?”

“Fuck off.” I swatted his leg, and he hit me over the head with his book.

I didn’t have the energy in me to fight him about keeping the lights on for safety. That would mean explaining my paranoid logic: lights meant people were home, and people being home meant intruders wouldn’t choose us.

It was just basic math.

As he resumed reading, my thoughts drifted somewhere vulnerable. I shifted restlessly, earning an annoyed glance before I gave up and settled for staring at the ceiling.

“Am I going to be okay?” I asked suddenly.