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Did he invite her over when I ran out of here like a psycho? I was so scared he’d run after me, that he’d chase me.
Of course he didn’t chase me. Colt Darling doesn’t chase girls. He lets them come to him. And when they do, he fucks them. He was ready to fuck me, and when I ran away, he didn’t bother coming after me. He just called Dixie to come bounce on his dick instead. He even lit candles for her, made it romantic instead of fucking her on the picnic table on his front deck where anyone could see if they drove up, not caring about romance or privacy or my dignity.
Not that I have any of that. I’m going after another girl’s man, for fuck’s sake.
That makes me the villain.
I always was the villain. I was never a victor, like I told myself. I was never a victim.
I throw open the door, leaning over to retch into the gravel. I didn’t eat dinner, and there’s nothing inside me, so I only manage to choke out a mouthful of bile. I want to keep puking until I turn myself inside out, until I’m as empty as Royal Dolce, as empty as Colt’s heart must be to replace me that way, just hours later.
How could I have been so stupid?
Of course he doesn’t fucking love me. He loathes me.
Of course it meant nothing to him. It never meant more, not even when we fucked.
I wrap my arms around my middle, trying to breathe, to exist past the pain. Every time I think I’m too broken to break anymore, someone finds a way.
I was never as unfeeling as Royal, even when I tried, even when I told myself I was. I was always faking it. I was always breakable, even when I pretended to be diamond.
That’s what I’m good at—faking, pretending, ignoring the jagged edges of my broken parts.
So I’ll pretend I don’t really love Colt, either. It’s just the idea of him, the memory I’m stuck with that he got to forget.
That’s impossible though. I can’t love the idea of him, the way I did Rylan. The idea of Colt is one I’ve taught myself to regard with scorn and even revulsion. The idea of him is so much less than the reality.
Does that mean I love him, the reality of him, with all its flaws and faces?
How would I know what love—real love—feels like? If Rylan wasn’t it, what is? Real love is supposed to last forever, and tonight when I told Rylan not to ever speak to me again, I didn’t fall apart, didn’t want to tear my heart from my chest with anguish. I didn’t even feel sad.
I felt… Relief.
Relief that it was over, that I didn’t have to pretend anymore.
That’s not love.
What I had with Royal, developing feelings for an unfeeling god because I understood what made him that way and that he was creating me in his image, was that real love? Or did he succeed in making me as cold and inhuman as he is, and now I’m too fucked up to recognize real love, let alone feel it?
What I’m feeling right now isn’t warm and euphoric like I imagine love would be. It’s not even a sweet and terrible anguish like I felt last year when it was over.
This is visceral and sickening, like the first time Mom let me and my sisters go to the county fair without her, and we ate funnel cake and corndogs and cotton candy because she wasn’t there to stop us, and then we went on the tilt-a-whirl and spent the rest of the night throwing up. It felt like karma for doing something Mom would never have allowed. Maybe this is karma too.
After a few minutes, I sit up. Gagging made my eyes water, and the tears make icy tracks on my cheeks. Movement from the corner of my eye catches my attention, and I snap mygaze up to the window. The curtain sways as if someone just let it fall back into place, and I see a shadow move across the ceiling.
Desperate as I am, I can’t stop the anvil strike of hope that blinds me for a moment. Maybe it was him. Maybe he saw my headlights, and he came to the window. Maybe he’s coming down.
I sit there, sick with hope, my heart stumbling with every beat in my chest. I think I’ll be sick again, but I can’t look a mess when he sees me. I quickly fix my makeup in the mirror, racing to get myself together, so I can look pretty when he sees me, like someone he could want again.
Then I wait, a trillion butterflies filling my stomach, my insides, until I can’t breathe and I can’t think and I can’t hope anymore.
Because it’s been five minutes, and then ten, and now twenty, and he hasn’t come.
He saw me, and he didn’t come. He knows, and he doesn’t care. He’s with her. He saw me waiting outside, begging like a dog, and he crawled back in bed with his girlfriend.
Of course he did. What did I expect?
He loves her. He loves her, and she loves him, and I don’t even fucking know what love is. It’s not just too late for me and Rylan, it’s too late for me and anyone. How would I know what love feels like if I’ve never felt it? This isn’t love. This is a desperate attempt to prove to myself that I’m worthy of someone’s admiration, even if it’s the lowest scum of the school. This is me grasping at straws, panicking because I’m alone and no one survives Willow Heights alone, even without being the Dolce boys’ target. This is not wanting to face the desolation and despair that waits for me at home, in my own house, not to mention at school tomorrow. This is me trying to cling onto hope when there is none, not wanting to admit weakness is all I have left.
