Page 106 of Scarred by You

But me fucking things up… I can’t bear the thought of that. I could never hurt her.

“What’s going on, Clark?”

I glance to her and look away quickly. Looking at her makes it worse somehow.

When we reach her apartment I keep the engine running.

“You’re not staying?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Not tonight, baby.” It’s all I can say before my voice breaks.

That look on her face right now, that’s what I have to avoid. I’ve known for four weeks that I’m not the right man for her. That I’m not worthy of or ready for something as precious as her. My father just brought it home. She waits, her eyes pleading with me, and damn it, I’m close to caving. Then she’s out of the car, slamming the door and heading to her apartment.

I grip the steering wheel, staring at the closed door, then I shift the car into gear and speed off. As I drive, I bite the knuckles of my fist, digging my teeth into my flesh until it’s the only pain I feel.

Back at my apartment, I fumble with my keys in the lock. By the time I’ve opened the door, I’m ready to kick the thing down. I settle for slamming it behind me and pressing my back against it, sliding to the floor.

I’m not who she needs. I’m not what anyone needs. I’m a fucking train wreck.

My father’s red face and bulging sinews come to mind. He knows what I am. And he’s not wrong about the Cross name being dirt. It would pull me down, too. But right now, I couldn’t give a damn. All I can think about is how she makes me feel. Like I can breathe, like I could be a better man, be wanted by somebody for the first time.

Even if I could be the man I want to be for her, Harold will make her life hell. He’d make our life hell. He’s made his feelings clear. I can’t be with Dayna Cross. He’d ruin her career before it even got started.

I don’t know what love is, but this feeling in my chest makes me think I’m finding out.

I head to the bathroom to clean up my face but find myself staring into the mirror at the reflection of a waster. I rear my fist and smash it into the glass, already too hurt to feel the pain shooting through my hand. I brace myself on the sink and try to breathe through my anger, but all I see is her toothbrush, her spare bottle of perfume.

I walk through to my bedroom. The bed that she’s slept in, the bed I’ve lain her in to make love to her.

I make a beeline for the kitchen and pull out a bottle of Jack, but I don’t pour it. I stare at it. This is half the fucking problem—drink, women. I launch the bottle against the kitchen wall and it shatters, spilling out across the tiles.

I’ve got to get out of here.

I get back in my car, fighting against the fog across my eyes. I don’t know where I’m going. I’m not thinking straight. My head is an ugly concoction of anger and desperation. I’m standing on a ledge and there’s no way back.

I have to fall.

I only realise I’ve driven to her when I’m sitting outside Dayna’s apartment block, staring at the door she slammed just hours ago.

She buzzes me in, and I head straight up to her apartment, a darkness settling over me, adding to how much I want to beat the shit out of something.

She answers the door, wearing a short black robe, her hair pulled across her shoulder, her skin clean and fresh. She’s outstanding.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“Hi.”

She reaches down and takes my hand. “What happened?”

“I got in a fight with my reflection.”

Her eyebrows furrow, but she doesn’t press me. She’s seen me lose it once before, when a guy dared to lay a finger on her in a bar. I close my eyes and try not to picture her with another man when I’m gone.

I thought about what I’m going to say, how I’m going to end this, as I trudged the stairwell up here. Now, seeing her, I’ve forgotten everything.

She steps back from the door and holds it open.

“I should go.”

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