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I yank the tap on and dig around for the shower cap my mother will have tucked into a drawer somewhere. My anger hasn’t burned out because my head hurts too much most of the time to process it, and yet it’s all I can think about.
Mina’s my escape, but that’s not without pain either. She doesn’t love me the way I love her and as much as I crave having her near, it hurts too much right now. I didn’t fully think through the implications of having her in my house for the next ten weeks. It’s not like I can magically stop loving her.
I don’t want to face her. Or my parents. I stand under the spray of the shower longer than I should, letting the hot water carry my angry tears down the drain.
Eventually, I turn the water off and wrap a thick white towel around my waist. I can’t wait until the staples come out of my head and I can shampoo my disgusting hair. Until then, it’s dry shampoo for the win. I spray some well away from the staples, combing it through my short hair, and wincing when my fingers get too close.
I shave to kill more time before I have to pretend everything is okay. I even put on cologne because if I smell like myself, maybe I’ll feel like myself, not this damaged impostor.
Doesn’t work.
Balling up my old clothes, I drop them in the hamper on the way to my walk-in and stop dead in my tracks.
My snowboard is propped in a corner. At least a quarter of my walk-in wardrobe is stuff I’ll never use again if I do the sensible thing and listen to Mom and the doctors.
The crack running through me barely has time to widen when there’s a knock at my door. Before I can tell my mother I’ll be down soon, it opens and Mina sticks her head in.
Her eyes go wide when she sees me, her gaze dropping over my body.
Disappointment sours on my tongue. Instead of puffing up my chest like a rooster, I deflate. She always looks. The problem is sheonlylooks. Like I’m some piece of art she’s scared to touch.
I’m not art, I’m Play-Doh, and I don’t want her to look anymore if she isn’t going to touch.
“Are you okay?” Mina asks, looking away, her cheeks going rosy under my glare.
“Fine.” My voice is tight. I am not fine.
Mina…I can’t let myself go there. I could tolerate the rest of it if I had her. But I don’t.
Shit is bleak.
Mina walks over to stand next to my bed, her fingers smoothing over the creamy blankets. It irritates me, the familiar way she’s touching the place where I sleep.
Because I’ve lost all sense of self-preservation, I imagine her dark hair spilling over the blankets, my face buried between her thighs. The sweet sounds she’d make, the musky taste of her, the feel of her fingers tugging my hair and holding me close. The way she’d move under me. Over me.
I can’t breathe with how badly I want all the things I’ll never have.
“Liar,” she says, sitting and patting a spot, wanting me to sit next to her.
On the bed I’m picturing her naked in.
She’s right—I am not okay. I’m pissed off I’ve spent the last five years pining for her, that she’s become someone I can’t live without.
“Get. Out.” It’s not me gritting those words through clenched teeth. It’s not Jackie, either—he didn’t make it. Died on the hospital floor when Mina said no. This is some splinter that’s a part of me, made from me, and lodged deeply inside me.
Mina gets to her feet, her gaze narrowed. She’s not going to cower and run because I growled at her. She’s probably going to kick my ass. I deserve it, but I can’t deal with her right now.
“I need to get dressed.” I point to the door. Mostly, I kept the bite out of my voice. Mostly.
She doesn’t budge. “Your mom wants to know if you want chocolate cake or an apricot tart.”
Of course, Mom sent her. Heaven forbid I have half an hour of privacy. I stomp around my bed to the door. “Mina hates cake, so make both!” I yell down to my mom. I need that cake to drown my sorrows. I turn to Mina and point to the stairs. “Out.”
Mina gasps and when she walks directly up to me, I subtly cover my junk with one hand…she’d never, but I might deserve a dick punch for talking to her like this.
“Do you know how many times I’ve eaten cake this week?” she demands. Her dark brown eyes are flashing at me, her cheeks pink, and damn she’s gorgeous when she’s pissed off. My heart is breaking all over again.
And seriously? She’s mad because she felt pressured to eat something she doesn’t like? When I’m mad at the whole world?
