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She tells me she loves me.
She doesn't say a word about Luna. I re-read the email, checking twice to make sure I didn't miss it, even though I know if I saw her four-letter name, my eyes would have gravitated toward it before any others.
She doesn't speak about her, though, or Luna’s parents.
I click out of her email, knowing if I responded now, it wouldn't make much sense. I'm too high, and me typing on a keyboard wouldn't create any coherent words or sentences.
I go to my sent mailbox, needing to double-check that my emails have even been delivered. Sometimes the internet is so bad that I think my emails have gone through, only to check back later to see I have received an error message.
But when I scroll down, and I continue scrolling, all I see are message after message of sent emails. Me to Luna, me to Luna, over and over again.
None responded to.
I don't even know if they've been read.
I shouldn't be so stupid, but when I click on the little envelope to compose a new email, all I can do is type inlooloolunain theTosection.
Luna,
Do you miss me?
Are you still mine?
Do you still feel it, Luna?
I still feel it.
I'll always feel it.
Still feel it, Luna.
Fucking. Feel. It.
I can barely see straight, but I think my words were at least understandable. I slam my computer shut, cringing, hoping I didn't break it. I slide it to the other side of the table, knowing my destructive behavior will easily go south from here.
Why?
Why can’t she just fucking respond to an email? I want her back so badly; I can feel my soul in pieces inside my chest. It’s like a piggy bank, every step making a small rattle. That’s my fucking chest, with my soul and my heart racketing around my rib cage, broken and fucking fractured.
Standing up, I stumble into the table. I glance at my bedroom door, where I know Brandy will be sleeping naked. Probably ready to wake up in the morning and go for round two.
She isn'ther.
She'll never be her. I know she'd like to be. She'd accept a proposal if I had one for her. But I don't, and I never will. I should probably shut it down now, but I'm a fucking bastard. I'm not the nice guy I used to be. My life isn't what it used to be.
She isn't her.
With that thought, I turn around, heading toward the two-cushioned sofa. It's uncomfortable, too short and too thin. The fabric too rough against my back. I'll wake up with a sore neck and an aching back, but it's better than pretending to be something I'm not.
I flop down, my eyes rolling to the back of my head as the high hits me. This is the worst part. My mind is exhausted, it always is. But the coke gets my body going, and I could thrum and fucking rock out all night.
Tonight, I don't have it in me.
My body twitches and shakes, my fingers trembling so badly I have to smoosh them beneath my legs. With my eyes closed, I wait for sleep to take me.
It doesn't, not until morning. And the only thing in my dreams is a gray-eyed Luna.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
