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What led him to kiss me again before that… I have no idea. All I can think is he was doing it out of pity. Guilt. To convince us both that he didn’t fuck everything up for nothing.
I don’t even want to consider any alternative reasons. Each one just ends with me feeling used.
Well, guess I got what I needed. My final nudge. It’s time to move on. For good.
After tomorrow night that is… Definitely should not have told Ivy and Will I’d stop by the bar. I’ll just have to leave before the guys finish their set.
Well so much for that.
So I was in my first bar brawl tonight.
Actually, I guess you could say, in a way, I started it. Threw the first punch and everything.
(Not that the asshole didn’t deserve it, because he totally did, and I know you would’ve done the same if you were there.)
Did Mason ever tell you about the time he taught me how to throw a punch? We were fourteen. It was the night before we started high school. He snuck out and rode his bike over. Texted me to come outside. I was so confused…
I’d never snuck out at that point, not even to just go to the treehouse, which is where he took us. He said he wanted to show me something.
We didn’t turn on the lights because we didn’t want to wake anyone up. So we only had the stars and moon to light our way. It was full that night—a blue moon. That’s what I heard on the radio earlier that day. And I remember looking up and squinting because I actually thought that meant it would turn blue. I swear it had a tint. When Mason asked what I was looking at, and I told him, he laughed. And I remember thinking how much I liked his laugh, just like that, with nothing but crickets and rustling leaves surrounding it. It felt…special.
Anyway, he taught me how to make a fist that night and had me practice hitting his hands. Then he wanted me to hit him in the face, but there was no way I was doing that. Not that I thought I could actually do any damage…but still. He’s such an idiot.
When I asked him why he was teaching me this, he said it was so I could fight back if kids started picking on me again, now that I’d be going to public school again.
I think that was the night I really accepted that I was well and truly fucked, you know? It was only a few weeks after that stupid game you made us play, and I still couldn’t get that kiss out of my head. And here he was luring me out of the house while everyone’s sleeping to teach me how to fight so I could protect myself from high school bullies. And his laugh…
His laugh that felt all mine, and no one else’s.
Anyway, whole lotta good any of it did, seeing as it only took me seven years to actually put those punching lessons to use.
Not to mention, out of all the times I decided to hell with it and fight back, I punched a grown ass man—a drunk one at that—who happened to have a whole ass harem of more drunken grown ass men and?—
Well you get the picture. It could’ve been reeeeallly bad. Lucky for me, Will and Way stepped in right before I could get the shit beat out of me. And then Mason all but threw me behind the bar, before joining the fray.
The bar got trashed. Police were called in. Will got punched and Way’s PTSD was triggered, so…
Yeah. I feel like shit about it.
No one blames me. At least not to my face. They assured me of that–Will, Mason, even Shawn. Still…I feel bad. Feel like I made something out of nothing. It’s not like what that asshole said was anything I haven’t heard before.
I’ve just been so angry lately. So fed up. With everything. With everyone. With Mason. With myself…
Anger is a lot easier to deal with than guilt.
I try to imagine what you’d say, if you knew what happened. If you could somehow…respond.
Or maybe you’re looking over my shoulder right now, reading everything I type.
I’d like to think you’d understand, given the circumstances and all. That you’d be…forgiving, or better yet, you’d approve of it. Not that that really solves anything, even if you could somehow send me a sign or message.
Because at the end of the day, it doesn’t change the fact that Mason’s attraction or whatever for me is a manifestation of his grief over you. I’m just another thing to fill the void left behind, and you could literally pull a Patrick Swayze right now and flick the pen out of my hand to tell me to go for it—that it’s okay—and it still wouldn’t make a difference.
I actually just sat here waiting for you to do just that. How pathetic is that?
AGE 21, NOVEMBER
My phone vibrating next to my head wakes me from a deep sleep.
