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And it works for everyone except him.
I smell him before I see him, as weird as that sounds. Fresh and clean and like home. Guilt curdles in my stomach because I don't deserve for him to be here, waiting for me, perched on the edge of my bed with that damn look on his face. Knowing and sympathetic and sad.
Looking at him hurts.
I've been treating him like shit and I know it. I haven't told him what's wrong. I don't want to. I don't want to tell anyone. I don't want to be any more of a burden. There are four people in the world that know what I am, that look at me through a different lens, and I can't take anyone else.
“Where were you?” His voice is so soft, so gentle, so fucking careful.
Mine is the opposite. Harsh and cutting and so uncaring despite the fact my heart feels like it's cracked in half. “Out.”
“Where?”
There's nothing judgemental in his voice, nothing accusatory, only concern, and yet I snap anyway. “You're my boyfriend, not my warden.”
“Luna, please.” He sounds tired. So tired. So sad, too. And I'm the source of it.
Luna Evans; the endless source of pain and sadness. Great.
Huffing out a sigh, I kick off my heels and toss my purse on the bed. “I was out with Pen, okay? Is that a crime?”
“I was worried.”
He's always worried and I hate it. I can't breathe knowing the dark circles under his eyes are because of me or that he didn't go home for the summer because I couldn't bear the idea of dragging down the atmosphere of Serenity Ranch and he didn't want to leave me alone.
“I called you.”
“I saw.”
“You didn't answer.”
“I was busy.” Busy drinking in silence with Pen because she's the only person I can bear to be around.
Jackson huffs in frustration. “Jesus fucking Christ, Lu.”
There it is. The breaking point. I push him on purpose, waiting for the moment he stops being sad and starts getting mad. It's easier to deal with him being mad. Because I'm mad, so fucking mad, and someone else being mad too just makes me feel that little bit better.
“I barely see you, Luna. You ignore my calls, you ignore me. I don't know what the fuck I did wrong.”
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He is perfect and I am awful. The only thing wrong is me.
When I make no effort to reply, his jaw tenses, irritation flaring in his eyes. “I can't keep doing this.”
“I get it, Jackson. I'm a terrible girlfriend.”
“Yeah,” he snaps, brown eyes aflame, “right now, you are.”
It's the truth, we both know it, but hearing him say it still sends me reeling, my head snapping back as the ugly truth slaps me in the face and riles my anger. “Okay, then. Maybe I shouldn't be a girlfriend anymore.”
Silence settles, my words hanging heavy in the air between us.
“Is that what you want?”
No.
I say nothing.
I don't mean it.
