28. Remy
28
Remy
S omething’s up with Win and I’m losing my shit.
Not that I have the right. He’s not my boyfriend. We’re hardly friends. For fuck’s sake, I tell the guy I hate him on a daily basis. But after brunch with Andrea and consistently texting him, I’m not sure how true that is anymore (or if it ever was in the first place.)
An hour has passed since we spoke on the phone. Anxiety is a carnivorous worm chewing through the lining of my stomach, multiplying and migrating to my other internal organs.
Is he with someone else right now?
I kick the idiotic thought away. He wouldn’t bother hounding me if that were the case. No, something happened between his last flirty text and the conversation with his stepdad. Richard isn’t the friendliest, but Win hasn’t implied they have issues. Maybe I said something to upset him?
Christ, I’m spiraling.
The doorbell chime signaling motion slices through the stifling silence of my apartment. Mitz jumps straight in the air at the same time I fly off the couch. I skid to a halt before opening the door, running my fingers through my messy hair in a pathetic attempt to tame the wayward curls.
I should seriously practice the breathing exercises Dr. Kat recommends every session.
The door barely cracks open when a gust of humidity breaches the threshold, followed by a sopping-wet Win carrying two handfuls of plastic bags.
His translucent white tee is glued to his skin, hinting at the intricate black ink decorating his torso. He stomps into the kitchen, boots squeaking obnoxiously as he drops the bags in a pile on the counter. Beads of water roll down his lean forearms, his neck, his cheek.
Palms flat on the marble, he stares at nothing. I carefully lock the deadbolt and creep toward him. Sensing me, he suddenly straightens and begins unloading the bags.
Did he bring… groceries?
He slaps a log of mozzarella on the counter.
Yep, those are groceries.
“Sorry, I wanted us to go together but I got tied up and it was getting late so I went alone. Of course, with my fucking luck, traffic was a bitch and the first store didn’t have what I was looking for so I had to drive to the one by the new development, then it started pouring and—”
He sucks in a sharp gasp when my hand lands on his lower back. I don’t know why I’m touching him, but I can’t seem to pull away.
“Don’t worry about it. Are you… ok?” I ask, scanning his pinched expression.
He won’t meet my eyes. “I’m fine.”
Same response as earlier— aka, the fattest lie I’ve ever heard. His hands and lower lip tremble as he plops two bags of gnocchi beside the cheese.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Oh, fuck no. He’s not playing this game with me.
I grab his forearm, stopping him from moving to the next bag. His head snaps up to reveal wet, bloodshot eyes. Fissures in my heart bleed at the anguish written in his stormy gaze.
“Bullshit,” I whisper.
He shakes his head, mouth opening and closing but no sound comes out.
The fissures widen to cracks. Raw, shattered, vulnerable. Looking back, he rarely showed this depth of emotion in front of me. I’d been too lost in my own madness to notice the silent signs he threw up like red banners. Now, they’re neon, blaring in my face and mocking me for not seeing them sooner.
My palm smooths to his hip.
“Tell me.”
“Trust me, you don’t want to know,” he murmurs, thick lashes clumping with tears.
“I promise you, I do.”
With a shudder, he whispers “I sat in front of a liquor store for twenty minutes.” He drops his head back and sniffs to hide the hitch in his breath. “But alcohol wouldn’t have been enough so I drove past a pharmacy three times before parking across the street at a gas station. Then I saw a guy dealing so I floored it out of there. I was about to throw five months of sobriety out the fucking window because I wanted to escape so bad. So. Fucking. Bad.”
He’s shivering so hard his teeth chatter.
I don’t think. I act.
Cupping his cheeks in both hands, I ask, “What are you running from?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“Please.”
His palms cover mine— he’s so cold. “Myself,” he chokes. “The inside of my head is a warzone and I’m constantly on the losing side. Even when I'm trying my fucking hardest, it's not enough. All I’m capable of is disappointing everyone, because let’s face it, I’m bound to fail. No matter how much I want to be the man everyone expects me to be, I’m too damaged, too fucked up, too broken .”
He’s a watercolor painting; smeared ink blending into a beautiful mess. A masterpiece of misery. An illustration of flawless impurities. His words are calligraphy written in blood, exposing thoughts I’ve heard in my own head.
“You’re wrong.”
“I'm not—”
His protests are silenced by my lips.