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The thought of getting on a bus and playing in a game is exhausting. Honestly, I just want these girls to leave me alone. I don’t need them hanging on me, texting night and day, or bringing me food. All I want to do is sulk by myself.
Taking my one-worded responses as an invitation, she beelines for the couch before setting the tin on the coffee table and curling up on the other side of me.
Once she’s burrowed beneath my arm and laid her head against my chest, she sighs. “I’ve really missed this.”
“Me, too,” Mallory says happily as if all is now right in the world.
I don’t bother adding to the convo, since it’s apparent my opinion doesn’t matter.
When their hands begin to wander, I realize that I need to extricate myself from the situation sooner rather than later. It’s just too weird having someone other than Lola in my arms. I think everyone just expected that I’d snap back to my old self. But how can I do that when she’s renting space in my head and nothing I do permanently evicts her?
I’ve picked up the phone dozens of times, ready to fire off a text, begging her to reconsider her decision. The only thing holding me back is that I don’t want to come off as pathetic. Am I guilty of driving to Taco Loco and sitting in the parking lot like a stalker, all the while attempting to work up the courage to walk inside and talk to her?
Yup.
Several times.
Instead of making even more of an ass of myself, I drove home and smoked a bowl.
It didn’t help.
What I’ve gradually come to realize is that nothing makes it better. Nothing dulls the pain that throbs insistently through me like a living, breathing entity. Nothing purges the memories that play through my brain on a constant loop.
I guess this is one of those shitty situations you hear about where only time can heal all wounds…blah, blah, blah.
“You seem so sad,” Mallory says, wriggling close enough for me to feel her nipple poking through the thin shirt she’s wearing. Her voice turns husky. “Are you sure there’s nothing we can do to turn your frown upside down?”
“You know that we’re up for anything, right?” Audrey’s purple-lacquered talons trail up and down my thigh. Each pass brings her dangerously closer to my crotch. “You know what they say—teamwork makes the dream work.”
A couple months ago, a collaborative effort by these two gorgeous girls would have been more than enough to get my cock’s attention. I would have been springing up from the couch and leading them to my bedroom for a couple hours of fun between the sheets.
Now, however?
Absolutely nothing stirs south of the border.
There’s not even a twinge.
It’s almost disconcerting.
I clear my throat. “As much as I appreciate the offer, I’m not interested.”
They both still.
“You’re not…interested?” Mallory echoes, disbelief ringing out in her tone.
I lift the bottle to my lips and swallow down the rest of the alcohol. “Nope.”
“But—”
“Sorry, ladies. There’s something I need to take care of.”
They stare with wide eyes as I rise to my feet and walk out of the living room.
“We’ll be here if you change your mind,” Audrey calls after my retreating form.
“All right,” I shoot back on the way to the kitchen to grab a water. It’s just easier to hang out in my room by myself.
Once the plastic bottle is in hand, I swing around, ready to head to the hallway when Rowan walks in with his arm slung around Demi’s shoulders. The pair grinds to a halt when they catch sight of me.
I hate the longing that floods through my system before I swiftly tamp it down.
Some people are just cut out for coupledom.
I—unfortunately—am not one of them.
That pitiful thought has me dragging a hand over my face. Clearly, holing up in my room until I can snap out of this funk is the right decision all the way around.
“Hey, Asher,” Demi says softly, drawing my attention. “You doing all right?”
Am I doing all right?
Am I doing all right?
Does it really look like I’m doing all right?
Hell, no…I’m not all right. Most of the time, it doesn’t feel like I’ll ever be all right again. I can literally feel myself sliding deeper into a pit of despair, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
Alcohol doesn’t help.
Sleeping doesn’t help.
Music doesn’t help.
Lifting doesn’t help.
Weed doesn’t help.
Nothing fucking helps.
“Yeah, I’m great,” I force myself to say. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
The dark-haired soccer player gives her boyfriend a bit of side-eye. The dubious expression on her face only has me digging in deeper. Like I need Demi thinking that some pint-sized chick with a prickly disposition is the one who finally did me in?
No thanks.
When she continues to stare, I add belligerently, “Don’t I look fan-fucking-tastic?”
