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Of course, he does. When has he ever agreed with me? Never, that’s when, and Van Gogh is the longest relationship I’ve ever had. Sure, I don’t know his real name, but I loved his psychotic ass for one magical summer—until he left me without a word.
I was trying to get over it, but you know what? Fuck him. I’m still bitter.
“Why are you here?” I narrow my gaze into the woods, hoping he can see how not excited I am to hear from him after nine years.
A rustling comes from behind me. “The same reason you’re here.”
I flip around, trying to get a glimpse of the man who has haunted my dreams since I was a teenager. “You were blackmailed, too?” I pitch my voice to sound ditsy like we’re discussing our mutual love of a pair of Jimmy Choos. “Samesies!”
This time, I don’t hear his deep chuckle.
“Aww. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to laugh, Van. I’m disappointed.”
Honestly, I could count on two fingers how many times I’ve heard him laugh, but I’m still pretty drunk and happy to spar with the man who used to make me come alive.
The keywords here are used to.
“Are you going to ignore me or say hello?”
Still, nothing.
Sighing, I flop down onto the ground next to the firepit. I’m sure it looked super sexy, considering I only have one shoe. I don’t even want to pretend to figure out how that happened. All I can hope is that I find it before I have to hike back to the car barefoot. Don’t think for a second that Blake will offer to carry me.
Van Gogh, either.
That’s not how he works.
Romance is dead to him.
So are people and anything that breathes.
But he used to tolerate me. He was there for me, and that’s more than I can say for anyone else.
Then again, fuck him.
“It’s awful to see you again, Van. If you’ll excuse me, I must return to the titty baby in my tent who thinks he’s a supermodel.”
Standing, I dust off my pants and ignore the whole one-shoe mystery. “You know how to get back home, don’t you?”
Like the serial killer Van longs to be, he says nothing. “It’s straight down through the earth’s center,” I remind him. “I heard Satan even put out a welcome sign for you.”
I pause, waiting for any reaction, but I get nothing but the chilly feeling of loneliness.
My moody stalker, the bane of Orange Grove, South Carolina, disappears, just as he always has.
Fucker.
Ugh. Why is my heart suddenly beating like I ran a 5K in fifteen minutes? Who cares about Van Gogh? Not me. He is so yesterday.
The only thing I need to focus on is the here and now and the giant-sized twat likely lying on my sleeping bag.
I need Blake out of my life. Hell, I need out of my life. As thrilling as some claim college to be, I think it could use fewer pricks and more average people. At Havemeyer University, everyone has something to prove. No one can be an average Joe and finish with a C.
No, they must be the best—everyone competes, and failure is not an option. Perfection is a must, and it spreads like a sickness.
And I’m tired of being sick. I’m tired of feeling like I’m never enough. Where are the small wins? Where are the victories when there’s never an end—never an attainable goal?
It’s brainwashing at its finest—a fear that my sister’s boyfriend instilled in me from a young age. You can never fail. Girls who can’t be the best end up on the streets—like my sister and me.
