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“No,” she breathes, her eyes downcast once more. “I’m not doing this. I’m not letting you do this.”
Before I can gather my wits, she’s gone, leaving me alone in her bathroom.
When I find her, she’s dragging my shirt on, the one she stole the night of Seb’s mum’s funeral, and discarding the towel.
“I know you want me,” I say, watching as she crosses the room to the bed.
“Yeah. You’ve got a nice cock. The rest of you though, not so much.”
“Em,” I breathe.
“What? You suddenly want to fuck me? To make it all better? You’re half the fucking problem,” she lies.
“I don’t believe you. I don’t think I hold the power to make you cry.”
She scoffs. “You got that fucking right. You’re nothing to me, Theo. Just a power-hungry, arrogant jerk who gets his kicks stalking me and watching me sleep.”
My eyes widen, but I don’t know why I’m shocked at her words. They’re the truth, after all. Actually, they only scratch the surface of the truth.
There’s so much she doesn’t know. So much that she’s going to hate me for. Even more than she does now.
Kicking my shoes off, I drag my hoodie over my head—much to her horror—and crawl onto her bed. Despite my need to get close to her, I stay on top of the covers.
“You had a bad day?” I ask, resting my head on my fist, looking down at her.
She doesn’t speak for the longest time, and I start to think she’s not going to reply.
I’m so focused on her shallow breaths that when she does speak, it startles me.
“It’s been a good day,” she says, but the words don’t hold any weight.
She stares at the ceiling, blinking back the tears that are threatening to spill.
I’m probably the last person she wants to cry in front of, and although it’s twisted as fuck, I want her to.
Why?
Because I want to put her the fuck back together.
Yeah. Fucked up.
“It’s just…” she continues after a long, heavy silence. “It’s stupid,” she sighs, dismissing whatever is bothering her.
Reaching for her hand, I twist my fingers with hers. “It’s not stupid if it makes you sad,” I tell her honestly.
“I… I’ve never had a Christmas where I haven’t at least spoken to my mum,” she says in a rush, as if the speed will stop me from hearing it.
But it doesn’t, and my chest constricts, knowing that I’m a part of her pain right now.
“She didn’t call you?” I ask, cringing at my question.
She shakes her head.
“I shouldn’t care,” she mutters before finally meeting my eyes. “And I really shouldn’t be telling you about it.”
“Who else are you going to tell?” I ask.
Her dad’s probably with his new wife, and her friends are wasted at home.
