Page 162 of Make Me Mean It

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CONNOR

Ahard knock cracks against the door, and I drag the blanket tighter around myself, curling deeper into the warmth I’ve been hiding beneath for the last few days.

It smells stale in here. Closed windows, old food, too many hours spent in the same room without bothering to do anything about it. I can smell it every time I move, and normally it would drive me insane, but the blanket is warm and heavy, muffling everything just enough that I can bury my face in the pillow and pretend I don’t exist for a little longer.

Another knock comes, harder this time, and I groan, pressing my face further into the pillow.

“Connor, open the door before I open it for you.”

Marcus’s voice carries straight through the wood, firm enough that I know he means it. He’ll probably start kicking the fucking thing next.

I exhale roughly, throwing the blanket back just enough to force myself upright. The room tilts for a second when I move too fast, and I sit there blinking until it settles, rubbing the heel of my hand over eyes that feel gritty and sore.

I don’t even want to know what I look like.

The blanket comes with me when I finally stand, wrapped tightly around my shoulders and trailing along the floor as I make my way across the flat. Morning light spills through the blinds, exposing everything I’ve been doing a pretty good job of ignoring.

Clothes dropped wherever I took them off. Empty wrappers shoved onto the table. Dishes sitting untouched beside the sink.

My skin crawls just looking at it.

This isn’t me.

I don’t live like this. I don’t leave cups sitting out or clothes on the floor or let things pile up until the whole room feels wrong around me.

Apparently I do now.

Marcus knocks again just as I reach the door, and I wrench it open with an irritated sniff.

He’s standing there with his arms full, a Tupperware container balanced against his chest and a plastic bag hanging from his wrist. I can see tissues through the plastic, some of the snacks I always reach for when I’m sick, a bottle of the juice I like.

My mouth pulls into what I hope resembles a smile, but judging by the way Marcus looks at me, I don’t quite manage it.

“I’m really okay,” I tell him, my voice thick enough to undermine the point. My gaze drops to the container in his hands. “You didn’t need to cook.”

Marcus actually laughs.

“As if.” He shakes his head, stepping toward me. “I can’t cook for shit, Con.”

My face scrunches into a grimace. He really can’t. I still remember the time he somehow managed to burn pasta while simultaneously leaving half of it hard.

Then he shrugs.

“Theo made it.”

My breath catches so sharply it hurts, the pathetic attempt at a smile disappearing before I can hold onto it. I turn my head away, but not before my vision blurs.

Of course Theo made it.

My throat closes around whatever I’m supposed to say to that.

I told him I missed him.

He told me to stay away.

And he still cooked for me.