Page 112 of The Tartan Thesis

I know this. This exact moment. He’s looking for a reason to abandon me. Just like all the others.

I’m not enough. I’m never enough.

And I still don’t know what the fuck I did.

“Torin, please—” I hate how I sound, begging, but I can’t stop. “Please, please don’t do this.” My voice breaks as the tears rise. “I know you’re scared, but please. Please don’t push me away.”

How is this happening? One perfect night and it’s over?

“I—” My throat tightens. “I don’t want you to go.”

The words slip out before I can stop them.

Too much. Always too much.

A tear tracks down my cheek. I don’t wipe it away.

Torin looks up at me and his expression falters, jaw loosening, eyes widening like he didn’t expect—then it’s gone. His mouth sets hard, his anger somehow increasing at my distress.

“Get. The fuck. Out. Of my. Way. You stupid. Fucking. Yank. I’ll not tell you again.”

My body goes rigid as his words land, striking blows.

He starts past me, and this time I don’t stop him. I turn, watch as he grabs his shoes, getting out of here as fast as he can.

Like I’m something he needs to escape from.

I run a hand through my hair, still teetering between hope and hurt. “Torin,” I say, voice breaking again.

He whirls on me, eyes blazing. I take a step back. The door is wide open behind him now, cold air spilling in. He doesn’t leave. Not yet. He just stands there, waiting.

“I’m sorry,” I rush out. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

He crosses his arms, shoes in hand. He’s already made up his mind.

“Please,” I whisper, another tear falling. “We can work through whatever it is. Together.”

Nothing. Not a word. But he hasn’t left yet. That must mean something. I need to keep him here till his anger subsides, but I don’t know what else to say. Now doesn’t seem like the time to tell him I love him, so I get as close to the truth as possible.

“Please,” I say again. “I need you.”

He looks at the floor, eyes flitting back and forth like he’s thinking. Hope flares. I take a step toward him, and he looks up. There’s less fire in his eyes now, something softer, sadder. “Aye,” he says quietly, “I know you need me.” My breath catches. “But that’s not my problem anymore.”

I stagger back.

And something in me snaps.

I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried so many times with him. I’ve swallowed every sharp word, every cold shoulder, put in all the effort, even after the way he first treated me, and now he has the audacity to scream at me, demean me, and then leave without explaining himself.

Fuck. That.

“Fine,” I say, standing up to my full height, the hurt and disappointment meeting inside me, turning to boiling anger. “You want to go back to the way things were when no one at the university wanted to hang out with you because you were such an asshole? Great. Do that.”

He blanches but I go on, seeing red.

“You want the faculty to spend half of their lectures trying to placate you because you can’t help but be the smartest douchebag in class? Enjoy yourself.”

I hear the words coming out of my mouth. I see his hurt and anger returning. But I can’t stop.