Page 37

“Fineeee. But don’t look!” His words aren’t as slurred now, but he absolutely needs to go to bed.

“How am I—Okay. Whatever, I won’t look.” I spin around, smothering my eyes with one hand and reaching blindly down to the pile of clothes I selected for him out of my closet. His foot lands on my hand instead, a silent instruction for me to remove his jeans.

Without peeking, I help him out of his clothes and into a pair of boxers that are too small for me. He manages to get the black tee over his head, and then I’m graciously allowed to help him get his arms through the holes.

Seeing his slender frame swallowed by one of my tees makes my world tilt on its axis, but I do my best to ignore the nagging feeling in my chest and get him settled on the couch.

We have a brief argument about toast and water, but once his belly is full, he ends up horizontal on the couch, snuggling one of my pillows. I would have given him my bed, but it’s on the mezzanine and I don’t want him falling down the stairs in the dark trying to get to the bathroom.

He mumbles something incoherent, so I squat down and ask him to repeat it. A honey-gold eye peeks out at me from under his arm.

“You win.” He sounds a lot more sober than he did a couple hours ago.

“What do I win?” I mutter, tucking the comforter around his body.

“The award for the worst human ever.”

Ouch.

“I hate you, because I don’t.”

Fuck, that hurts.

“Don’t what, Bels?” I whisper, my voice hoarse. I run my thumb across his skin in soothing patterns, though I think it’s more for my benefit than his.

His eyelids flutter, falling shut.

I shake him gently. “Bellamy?”

His breathing turns slow and steady and the little crease between his brows smooths out, his body relaxing as sleep takes him.

I take a moment to look at him while he’s unguarded. Beautiful long eyelashes fan across his pink-stained cheeks. The cute button nose. I allow myself the indulgence of sweeping his waves off his brow while I’m not at risk of having my fingers bitten off. They snag on his earring as I tuck his hair behind his ear.

As delicately as I can, I unfasten it and slide it free from his ear. He stirs, but I shush him gently while I reposition him onto his side, just in case he’s sick. I don’t feel like I can leave him yet, so I throw open one of the large windows and settle into the window bench, sparking up a blunt and taking my sweet time with it.

It gives me space to sit with my feelings, something I don’t really like doing, opting to bury them most of the time. Emotions don’t serve much purpose other than to get me into shit. Shit like this, where my ex is lying on my couch, wearing my clothes, and all I can think about is what I wouldn’t give to go back in time and punch myself in the throat for hurting him the way I did.

I swallow around the lump in my throat. Surely there’s a difference between not getting over someone and still being in love with them.

I just don’t think I know what that difference is.

Chapter Eighteen

Sunday

Islept like shit. Usually hitting a blunt before bed knocks me right out, but I kept hearing things and worrying about Bellamy. Every rustle of bedding sounded like harsh, ragged breathing, and every time I dozed off, I would end up jolting back awake.

At some point I gave up and curled up on the end of the couch next to him, which calmed me enough that I fell asleep.

Sleeping upright on a couch is not the move when you’re approaching thirty. My muscles are tight and I ache like a bitch. There’s a random scratch down my thigh too, but despite racking my brain I can’t figure out when it happened.

I roll my neck as I unfold my limbs, leaning over slightly to check on Bellamy. Morning light seeps in from the big industrial-style windows, painting him in stripes of subtle gold. I’m mesmerized by the rise and fall of his chest as he takes slow, even breaths, mouth parted, his arm thrown over his eyes.

I want to touch him again, but I know I shouldn’t.

As quietly as possible, I get up from the couch and make my way into the kitchen, filling up a glass of water and knocking it back in one. There’s an itch inside me, one that I can usually fix by going for a run. Leaving Bellamy alone in an unfamiliar place feels cruel, so I decide to work out at home instead.

Luckily my place is open and functional, so I have calisthenics bars drilled into the exposed-brick wall and a compact set of weights that get the job done. Sweating alcohol out of my system always helps me feel better, clears the head too.