Page 122 of Make Me Mean It

I pull out a chair and sit, reaching for my phone before I’ve even opened the textbook. The time flashes across the screen, and I stare at it before putting it back down and dragging my notebook closer.

It’s still open exactly where I left it, neat lines of writing covering the page, but I make it through the same sentence twice without absorbing a single word. By the third attempt, my pen is tapping restlessly against the paper and my eyes are already drifting back towards my phone.

I grab it.

Two minutes.

Two fucking minutes since I last checked.

“Jesus Christ.”

I flip it face down and shove it across the table, irritation crawling hot beneath my skin because I don’t even know what I’m waiting for. Theo isn’t going to text me. There’s absolutely no reason he would when he’s currently on a date with Tristen.

My pen stops tapping, and I grit my teeth, staring harder at the page.

I don’t care.

Theo can take Tristen home if he wants. He can fuck him, let Tristen put his hands wherever the fuck he wants, let him get his fingers beneath that stupid shirt and undo every button I-

Crack.

My thoughts cut off as my pen gives beneath my hand, and when I look down, the plastic casing has split between my fingers, ink slowly bleeding across the side of my hand.

“You good?” Marcus calls from the living room.

I stare at the broken pen and the ink smeared across my fingers before tossing the pieces onto the table. “Yeah. You got a pen?”

There’s enough silence from the other room that I already know the answer.

“Do I look like I have a pen?”

I roll my eyes and grab a tissue, wiping at the ink staining the side of my hand. “Fucking useless.”

“Check Theo’s room.”

My fingers still against the tissue, my eyes drifting towards the stairs despite myself. Theo’s room. Of course Marcus would send me there.

I’m already heading for the stairs, because Theo has pens and Marcus literally just told me to check his room. It’s quicker than tearing apart every drawer downstairs looking for one, and that’s the only reason my feet are carrying me up there.

By the time I reach Theo’s door, my hand sits on the handle for long enough that I get annoyed with myself and shove it open.

His aftershave hits me immediately, stronger up here, mixed with detergent and whatever else makes Theo’s room smell so distinctly like him. My lungs pull it in, and I stand there with my hand still wrapped around the door handle, chest tightening around a breath that doesn’t want to come back out.

It’s a room, one I’ve been in plenty of times, and the pens are sitting exactly where I knew they would be on the desk. I take a step towards them, already reaching for the nearest one when my eyes catch on the bed instead and my jaw clenches.

The duvet is rumpled, and Theo is back in my lap with his forehead against my shoulder and his voice rough against my neck.

I tear my eyes away, refusing to look at the bed again as I cross the room.

Which would be easier if the rest of the place wasn’t just as bad.

There’s a hoodie thrown over the back of his chair, one sleeve practically touching the floor. Clothes spilling out of a drawer he couldn’t be bothered to close. Loose change, receipts, and random shit scattered across his desk around a mug I’m fairly certain has been sitting there since last week.

The mess makes my fingers itch to fix it, but I ignore it. I turn to leave with the pen already clenched in my hand, only for my eyes to fall to the bed again.

I can still feel the weight of him completely loose in my arms while my fingers moved through his hair.

He trusted me enough to fall asleep like that, and I waited until he was out before slipping from beneath him and leaving without a word. The memory keeps me rooted there, staring at the sheets while the edge of the pen digs into my palm, until somewhere between telling myself to leave and actually doing it, I cross the room and sink onto the edge of the mattress instead.