Page 156 of Make Me Mean It

Because I know exactly what happens if I let him touch me again.

“No.” Connor moves before I can, lunging forward, panic flashing across his face as his hand reaches for me. “Stop, please.”

My vision blurs so suddenly I barely register what’s happening until something hot slips down my cheek.

Fuck.

I scrub at it roughly with the heel of my hand, blinking hard against the sting in my eyes. “I can’t, Connor.”

My voice breaks anyway.

“I just-” I swallow, trying to force down whatever the fuck is closing my throat, but it doesn’t move. “I just fucking can’t.”

Because if I stay, I’ll cave.

He’ll touch me and I’ll let him. He’ll kiss me and I’ll forget every fucking reason I’m supposed to walk away. He’ll call me beautiful, or baby, or look at me like I’m something he can’t stand to lose, and I’ll convince myself all over again that it’s enough.

Then he’ll walk away.

He’ll go right back to pretending this is nothing.

That I’m nothing.

I turn before he can say anything else, forcing my legs to move even though they don’t feel entirely steady beneath me.

“Baby, stop.”

My next step fucking falters.

“Stop. Please.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, my back still to him, because that one word nearly has me turning around. Nearly has me throwing away every thing I just said and going straight back to him.

Instead, I keep moving.

I reach the bike and swing my leg over it, grabbing my helmet with hands that won’t stop shaking. It catches awkwardly as I drag it on, my fingers fumbling with it until frustration burns through the hurt.

I know better than to look at him again.

I do it anyway.

Connor’s still standing there.

Wrecked. Pale. Eyes fixed on me like he’s waiting for me to change my mind, and fuck, I want to. I want to so badly it physically hurts.

My throat closes.

“I can’t,” I choke out, barely loud enough to hear myself.

I start the engine.

The roar tears through the silence, swallowing everything else before Connor can say another word that might make me stay.

Then I’m gone.

I tear away from the house without looking back, gripping the handlebars hard enough that my knuckles ache while another tear slips hot down my face beneath the helmet.

At least this one nobody can fucking see.