Chapter 35
My least favorite part about fighting is that once I come down from all the anger, only sadness remains.
I can’t even conjure up any righteousness to cling to, because he hadn’t really done anything for me to be upset with him about.
He didn’t deserve what I said. My throat is clenched and my chin is wobbling and even now I feel tears stinging hotly in my eyes.
I wish so badly to take back all those things I said.
I keep thinking about how hurt he looked, how defeated he’d been when he walked away, and I wince every time the image flashes through my mind.
I rummage through my bag until I find the pistachio chocolates, shoving them into my mouth by the handful, but all they taste like is guilt.
Now even my favorite candy is ruined. I force down another handful, determined to eat as many as it takes for them to not taste terrible anymore.
I walk to the address Wes texted as my mind spins and spins.
The absolute worst part about everything Nico said is that he’d been right. Of course he was. Everything, even the bit about not having self-respect, had been spot-on. I wish I had been able to realize it earlier, before all this effort and without all this drama.
I had gotten here, though. Even if it had taken so much time.
And maybe that’s just what being eighteen is: knowing that you have to move forward, move on, move out, even when there’s nothing you’d rather do than stay in the past. What I hadn’t said to Nico is that, even without his input, I’ve always known that if I see Wes tonight, it will represent the closing of a chapter instead of the start of another.
I’m sick of having my mouth taste all dry and icky.
Sick of feeling nauseous all the time, wondering if he’s going to text me back.
Sick of spending all my time and thoughts on someone who doesn’t do the same in return.
Sick of being stuck to my phone, on his hook, perpetually waiting for him to get back to me.
Tonight is going to be the night I say goodbye to Wes.
Even if my friends never speak to me again, and I am alone forever, I have no doubt at all that I’m doing the right thing.
I can’t help laughing as I approach the address Wes texted.
Of course it’s a club. Of course that’s the backdrop he’s chosen to try to woo me back.
But it’s okay. Wes is in his frat-boy party era, and that’s his journey.
In a way, I’m thankful he’s making this easier on me.
For the first time in a long time, I feel free.
I squint as I approach. Wes is standing out front, wearing a white T-shirt so tight it could be cutting off circulation to his biceps, talking—no, maybe even flirting—with two girls.
My chest constricts in its habitual weighted blanket of jealousy.
But this isn’t my battle to fight anymore.
I push past those feelings and take a deep breath, steeling myself.
It’s all for nothing, though, because when I get closer, I realize that he’s not flirting, he’s fighting for his life.
And those aren’t two random girls; they’re definitely Anya and Marisol.
It’s hard to hear what they are saying, even as their voices get loud, because they’re all talking over one another.
Anya is nearly eye level with Wes and, judging by her face, she’s spitting pure fire.
Snippets and words break through: who do you think you are and what do you think you’re doing and fuckboy.
I freeze, unsure if I should keep walking.
Anya and Mari might not want to see me, and I don’t even know if they want to keep being friends, but here they are, defending me. Just as I’m deliberating, though, I see Anya get closer, up in his face, and Wes, whether reflexively or on purpose, shoves her, and she stumbles back.
Oh hell no. Before the thought even clears my brain I am moving, grabbing the first thing I see, which is a pitcher of beer off a nearby table. I ignore the shouts of objection from the surely lovely people who planned to enjoy that beer and I march over to Wes and dump it all over his head.