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Her lips tremble and a tear slides down her cheek. “Fuck you.”
It’s a low tone, broken almost, but I don’t get to focus on that as she shoves me away, grabs the album from the ground, and barges to the driver’s side of her car.
She speeds off the property, the sound of gravel crunching under the tires echoing in the air.
All I’m left with are questions, confusion, and a fucking twist in my chest.
28
ASPEN
Tears won’t stop staining my face long after I’m in my apartment, curled up in bed and begging for sleep.
My ass burns, my pussy aches, and my whole body hurts. But none of that compares to the shattering pain in my chest.
I told myself I’d cool down after a while, pick up my pieces and move on, but it’s been hours and no improvement is in sight.
In fact, I remember Kingsley’s words and I’m hit with a fresh wave of loathing directed at myself and him at the same time.
Why did I even have to get emotional after he fucked me like an animal right outside our daughter’s house?
What did I expect anyway?
Going into this, I knew full well he wouldn’t take it anywhere beyond the physical. I read an article once about how men and women release different brain chemicals after sex. While both release dopamine, women have excessive oxytocin that forcibly bonds them to the person they experience pleasure with. Which isn’t the same for men; their oxytocin’s mere purpose is the production of semen. Dopamine is the only prominent hormone for them, and it doesn’t matter who they get it from.
Considering I never actually formed a bond, or even allowed myself to get close to my previous partners, I thought myself immune to such phenomenon. But then again, they weren’t Kingsley.
They weren’t the man who flipped my world upside down in more ways than one.
And although I hoped to keep this whole relationship physical, I might have lost the battle way before I even realized it. Kingsley, however, is still firm in his convictions about what this whole thing is. He calls me a whore, after all, and although it’s only during sex and I don’t deny being turned on by it, maybe that’s all he thinks of me as.
But I guess I was blinded enough by his caring side to hope for more.
Now, I need to kill those hopes and whatever we have, because sooner or later, it’ll drain me. There will be extra baggage, self-loathing, and a new hope that will blossom at any of his gestures.
Like how he defended me in front of Gwen.
Irony is my least favorite bitch because she’s repeating the scenario from twenty-one years ago. I waited for him then, I searched for him, I wanted to preserve the connection we had during that one night. In the midst of the messy sex, drinking, and our sporadic conversations, I had more fun with him than I’d had in fourteen years.
He opened my eyes to a world I had no idea existed, and I was greedy for more. More thought-provoking debates, violent tendencies, and him.
I tried to find him even before I knew I was pregnant. That was out of mere selfishness as I entertained a pipe dream where I could ever belong in his world.
Eventually, I rose to his level. Eventually, I stood toe to toe with him, worked with him, sparred with him, and slept with him.
But that’s the furthest extent I’ll go to.
A rotten mouse from the ghetto will always, without a doubt, be eaten by the suburban cat.
And I guess I’m in the middle of that process now.
I want to tell myself that it’s okay, that I’ve survived worse, but instead of being relieved, more tears stream down my cheeks.
My phone lights up with a text and I stare at it through my blurry vision in the darkness.
He’s been calling nonstop since I left and sent a series of texts urging me to pick up the phone when I refused to answer.
The last one he sent just now is different.
