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Chapter Nine
ISABEL
I hate him! I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!
I’ve already thrown every soft object I could find. Now, I’m just pounding my fist into my pillow to the rhythm of my new favorite anthem: I. Hate. Tristan. Haverford.
Why am I even crying? He’s not worth the tears. He’s exactly what everyone thinks. Cocky and selfish and callous andI hate him!
I bury my face in the pillow, while fighting the chaos inside me. Regret, guilt, anger, humiliation… Lust. Because let’s face it, those two minutes he was mine, those few euphoric seconds of exploring his warm, sculpted body and inhaling his addictive kisses will haunt me. Not my dreams—he already owned those—no, this will be worse. This will be a constant stab of hunger every time I have to look at him, think about him, hear his name—gah!
I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!
And I want him so much I can’t breathe.
I flip over and stare at the ceiling. Even now, I’m craving him, straining to hear evidence of his movements. Just the smallest hint that he’s close. Is he still in the bathroom? Did he move to the living room? Did he leave the apartment?
A chill flows through me when I think about the last time I let him run. God, the complete devastation when we found him. He’d been obliterated in that cold stairwell, folded over like he was in physical pain, and we still don’t know why. Well, we do, but not really. He won’t talk to us. Kim’s tried. She told me about their argument before she left for work, about how he refuses to get help even though he so clearly needs it. What do they say about horses? You can lead them to water but sometimes you just want to shove them in?
And the worst part? I’d do it again. Without a thought or wasted breath, I’d kiss him, touch him, hold him, if he let me. He’s my heartache and my weakness, and I’ll have to live with that agonizing temptation just a few feet away for heaven knows how long. Maybe Pierce was right. Maybe I do need to move out, if only to preserve my own sanity.
“I hate you, Tristan Haverford,” I whisper.
I wish with all my heart that was true.
I haven’t had a sick day in months, so I don’t feel guilty for staying home today. I’m tired. Exhausted, really, and I have to sort out what to do regarding Pierce and Tristan—two men I need to shed from my life for opposite reasons.
I barely slept at all last night, a fact made worse by the frequent movement in the living room indicating he wasn’t sleeping either. That’s nothing new. What’s different was my reaction, how for the briefest moment, I wasgladhe was hurting. My gut anger gloated in his trauma and felt he deserved everything that happened to him. Then I remembered the scars on his back and the agony on his face when we found him beneath the stairwell. How despite a few lingering remnants of what he used to be, he’s somehow been cracked and emptied. Being a jerk doesn’t justify what he’s been through, what he continues to endure in that hidden prison he still carries around.
I’m not proud of my brief wave of hostility, but maybe that’s what happens when volcanic passion meets sharp rejection.
It’s almost noon before I’m finally ready to brave the world outside my room. I never stay in bed that long, but I wasn’t ready to face Tristan alone. Kim left for the gym and then lunch with friends, leaving us no buffer for a confrontation after last night’s disaster.
The horrible things I said to him sink in my stomach as I move into the hall. I knew they weren’t true even as they spewed from my mouth, but in that moment I wanted to hurt him like he’s hurt me time and again. I thought there could be nothing worse than getting rejected in front of your entire school. Then I got rejected in front of a scratched vanity mirror that watched me own my obsession for a fleeting second.
I approach the living room but stop in the hall when I hear his voice.
“They can do that?” he says into the phone, clearly upset. “It was almost five thousand dollars!”
From my vantage point in the shadows, I see him lean forward and wipe a hand over his face.
“I get that but… no, I know, it’s just…”
He shakes his head, his grip tightening on the phone.
“I guess not,” he mutters and hangs up with a curse.
He tosses the phone on the coffee table, then drops back to the couch and stares up at the ceiling. By the defeated look on his face, he’s just been dealt another blow.
I should ask if he’s okay. He’s not.
I should ask if I can help. I can’t.
I should do something to acknowledge his clear distress, but I don’t as I move through the room into the kitchen. I feel his surprise at my back. He probably didn’t know I was still here.
“You don’t have to work today?” he asks.
I glance at the silhouette in the doorway before returning my attention to the fridge. The stack of raspberry yogurts taunts me as I study the small containers that represent a huge gesture. My heart melted when I saw them and realized he not only cared enough to notice what I liked, but used some of the little money he had on me. So yes, once again I found myself sinking into the delusion that my feelings were reciprocated, that when he kissed me back there was hope.
