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“I don’t give a fuck what my father said. I don’t want you here,” I growl, shoving my feet into my shoes. “Get dressed and be gone by the time I get back.”
“Quinton, stop. I know you don’t mean that. Why are you doing this?” From the corner of my eyes, I watch her climb off the bed and come for me. I know what I have to do next will kill her, as much as it’s going to kill me to say.
“If I can’t fuck you, you are no good to me.”
She stops her approach, and I still can’t bring myself to look at her, knowing the pain I would see and that I might not be able to keep up the lie if I do.
“That’s not true.” I know which part she is talking about, but I act like it’s going over my head.
“If it’s not true, then bend over and let me fuck you. Or at least get on your knees and suck me off.” I’ve always been an asshole to her, but this reaches new heights. If I’m not already going to hell, I surely will for this. “Even if you could, I don’t think I’d get it up after they fucked you.”
Bile rises in my throat, and I know I have to get out of here now before I puke all over the floor. My stupid, treacherous heart is splitting in two, and the pain encompasses my entire chest.
“I know you don’t mean that. Don’t push me away, Quinton. I need you,” Aspen pleads, her voice so small and fragile, and all I want to do is take it back. I clench my hands into tight fists, trying to contain the pain, the hurt, to stop myself from taking her into my arms and apologizing. This is for the best.
“I don’t want to see you again, so hurry and get out.” The lie leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. All I want is to see her, hold her, taste her. I want to have her in every way, but I can’t. Instead, I force my legs to carry me out of the room, leaving Aspen behind.
Slamming the door shut behind me, I speed walk down the hall and into Adela’s old room. After they raided the house, Mom put everything that wasn’t broken back in its spot. It’s not the same; it doesn’t smell like it used to in here. I can’t feel her presence lingering like I did before. Still, being here helps calm me.
I sit in the large bay window where Adela used to sit and read. The sun has fully risen now and has warmed the glass. I press my forehead to it, seeking warmth, but my skin remains ice cold. I’m not sure how long I sit there staring out into the front lawn, but a car pulls up out front after a while.
A guard appears carrying a suitcase and places it in the trunk. My lungs burn from the lack of oxygen as I watch my father exit the front door shortly after with Aspen trailing behind. Her head is bowed, but her steps never falter. I suck a ragged breath into my lungs, watching my dad open the back door for her. She disappears inside, and my heart threatens to lurch out of my chest.
To my surprise, my father walks around and climbs into the back seat on the other side. I guess he’s taking her to the airport.
The car takes off, driving down the long, winding driveway. I follow with my eyes until I can’t see them anymore.
She’s gone. The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. I won’t be able to hold her tonight or any other night. I won’t be able to run my fingers through her silky hair or watch her hazel eyes light up when I speak. I won’t be able to feel her smooth skin or smell her flowery shampoo. I lost her. And even though I know I will keep her safe from a distance, I feel like someone died. I feel like I lost the best parts of me forever. The creaking of the door tells me someone else has entered the room. Looking away from the window, I find my mom standing in the doorway. Her tearful eyes find mine, and a sad smile tugs on her lips. She enters the room, closing the door softly behind her.
“I thought I might find you here.” I pull up my legs, and she sits next to me on the bench. “I’m so sorry, Quinton. I know sending her away wasn’t easy. I wish I could change the way things are. I wish I could make you feel better and take all your pain away.”
“I know, Mom. It’s okay. I’m going to be okay,” I lie. Losing Aspen is indescribable. It’s heartache and pain, but it’s deeper than all of that. It’s an ache that will never go away.
