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“Fuck you,” I choke out quietly into my empty room, just as another message comes in.
Def shouldn’t have said that last part. Fuck, I wish there was a way to unsend messages. I’m just gonna stop now. I’m sorry. Night Jeremy
Seconds turn into minutes as I wait for more dots to appear, while simultaneously debating with myself.
“Don’t do it,” I whisper.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
What do I even say to all that anyway?
I could call him…
Absolutely not.
Grimacing, I lock the phone when it’s clear he’s done messaging me, and toss it to the side. Not like he’ll know I read them, seeing as the second I switched from Android to iPhone, I made sure to turn that little option off.
Groaning—again—I flop onto my back, glaring blearily up at my ceiling.
After what happened that day in the cemetery, and then in his room later on, I was prepared for him to freak out once he sobered up. Prepared for the regret.
Hell, when I found out he’d immediately checked back into rehab that following morning, I spent the next month bracing myself for what he’d say the next time we saw each other, mentally reinforcing all my defenses so he wouldn’t see how crushed I’d be when he told me it was a mistake.
What I wasn’t prepared for was him to murmur my name and hold my face and kiss me like it’s all he’s been waiting to do.
What I wasn’t prepared for was him to find what little pieces of my heart remained, and grind them into dust just by not reacting the way I expected.
What I wasn’t prepared for was how much more crushing it was to feel his lips a second time.
It would’ve been far easier if he did freak out. At least then, I wouldn’t feel so fucking unimportant to him that he’d risk our friendship to experiment this newfound bi-curiosity of his.
Of course he had to go have that realization now, after the fact.
Too little, too late, I think bitterly.
He might be fumbling in the dark right now, but I’ve never seen things clearer.
And I know without a doubt, that in time, he’ll see it too—he’ll see this exactly for what it is, see me for what I am to him…
Just another vice in his endless chase to replace her.
Our friendship died with her, just like I told my mom. I see that now.
What was once pure and innocent, and, okay, maybe a little messy thanks to my secret crush on him, became this ugly, twisted thing, built on heightened fears and desperation, and longing for something that we’d never have again.
“‘They cannot scare me with their empty spaces,’” I recite quietly into the empty room, “‘Between stars—on stars where no human race is. I have it in me so much nearer home, to scare myself with my own desert places.’”
I huff a quiet, humorless laugh to myself.
Guess Frost was onto something there.
Izzy is our desert place.
And in that emptiness, what remained of us latched onto each other.
We could stare up at the stars and make wishes and pretend there’s something more out there—something more here… between us.
I could give in, and let him explore whatever it is that prompted him to kiss me outside the diner. Finally have a taste of what it’s like to be loved back by Mason.
