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“I just—you’re right, Drew. I just need to figure out—”
“Figure out ‘how to come out properly?’ Or what about, ‘I just need to figure out a good time to come out to the world. I don’t want to let our fans down or hurt the band.’” He quotes my past excuses word for word and my skin stings. “What do you need to figure outnow,Asher?” I flinch at the sound of my full name.
When I don’t answer, he nods. “That’s what I thought.”
He moves to the door, and I grip his wrist. I can feel the hatred rolling off him as he turns and glares down at where I hold him.
I don’t know why I do it. I crush myself into him and force a kiss on his lips. I can’t stand the hostility and I can’t bear the blatant disgust and disappointment he’s feeling toward me, even though I deserve it. He painfully grips my head and ravages my lips with his own before thrusting me back against the small countertop. He touches his lips in surprise before pointing a finger at me.
“Fuck you,” he spits. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
He leaves the bathroom and everything around me blurs. I feel needles in my chest and face, and nausea rolls through my core. I barely make it in time to puke into the toilet with a silent sob.
I never wanted any of this, but I know I’m the one to blame for our demise.
