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Tears blur my vision and pour down my face no matter how much I told myself I wouldn't cry. I need to get the fuck out of here. That's what I need. I just need to go.
“Kennedy, stop,” Easton pleads, coming behind me and resting his hand on my elbow. “Don't do this.”
I whip around and push him away. “I'm not the fucking one to blame here, Easton! You are! You did this!”
“I know,” he agrees. “And I'm so sorry. Tell me what I can do to fix it?”
“Fix it?” My stomach churns. “You think this is just something you can fix? You swore to me that she wasn't a threat. That you'd always be honest with me.”
The rage building in me starts to bubble over the surface. Anger masks the sadness, and I bask in the fury because it's better than drowning in the pain. I step closer to him and pound my fists against his chest.
“You're an asshole! A fucking asshole! A lying, cheating, piece of shit!”
He stands there and allows me to beat on him, screaming insults and obscenities in his face, until he doesn't. His hands grab the sides of my face and he spins us around faster than I can react to it. His mouth molds over my own, and he kisses me with such an intense need it almost knocks the wind out of me.
Our tongues tangle together, and for a moment, I'm lost in the feeling he's always spurred inside me. It covers the pain and erases the devastation, leaving behind a need to stay wrapped in his arms no matter what. It's toxic and manipulative, and yet I'm greeting the devil with open arms because it just feels so damn good.
He breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against mine, our heavy breathing mixing together in the air. “Please, baby. I...”
Time freezes, and I wait for the three words I've been longing to hear. The words he hasn't said because he claims the institution of it all is just a massive mind fuck. The words that I've told him numerous times, only to be let down when I don't get them in return.
“...don't want to lose you.”
My stomach drops, and I'm right back to where I was before he made everything hazy with his talented lips. I always tried to tell myself that he feels it. That he proves it in the way he looks at me. In the way he holds me at night. But I've been fooling myself.
“Did you ever say it to her?” I ask, eyes clenched shut, terrified of the answer.
“Say what?”
Inhaling, I force myself to look at him. “The three words you won't say to me.”
I will him to say no, that this twisted view on love has been something instilled in him from a young age. But as he steps back and looks down at the ground, I have my answer, and it hurts so much more than I thought it would.
“So it's just me then?”
He runs his fingers through his hair and shakes his head. “No. It's not you. You're perfect. I just...”
“You gave your heart away when you were seventeen, and you never got over her,” I hiccup over a sob. “It's fine. I get it.”
As I walk around him to continue packing my stuff, he stops me. “It's not that.”
“Then what is it?” I question exasperatedly. “Tell me, please. Because nothing you say can be worse than what's going through my mind.”
He reaches forward and runs his knuckles down the side of my face. “I care about you.”
And just like that, his touch is no longer comforting. It's burning and cruel, like a branding iron meant solely for torture. I take a step back and wrap my arms around my stomach.
“That’s the problem! You care about me. You want me to be happy. You like spending time with me. But you love her.” Tears flow like a broken faucet as I almost choke on my words. “I get the holding hands in public and kisses goodnight, but she gets the only part of you I want. She gets your heart. I just can’t handle being your second choice anymore, Easton. It hurts too much.”
“You're not—” He starts to fight me on it, but as I turn away from him, he stops and exhales before marching out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
As soon as I'm alone, my legs give out and I crash to the floor. I cover my mouth with my sleeve to try and keep the sobs in, but it's no use. My head falls back against the bed, and for the first time in years, I wish I could go back to the best night of my life and choose differently.
Two Years Earlier
Parties for no reason are one thing. They're fun and a good way to let loose after a long week of classes. But celebration parties? Those are on another level. The energy is intense and intoxicating even without booze. It may only be the first game of the year, but we're drinking like it's the championship.
“Do you think Mason is hot?” Amelia asks.
