Chapter 43 Vale
Vale
“I think it’s time we get you back into therapy.”
Not lowering the glass of water from my lips, I flick a sideways look at Quentin where he leans back against the kitchen island.
I missed dinner…
Again.
Not that I haven’t been eating. That part’s easy. It’s the ritualistic expectations that humans have attached to an act no more worthy of fanfare than taking a shit that I’ve been having trouble keeping up with these days.
Forgive me if I’m not in the mood for pleasantries, and would rather just scarf down what I need to survive in peace.
Arms crossed, brow arched over his glasses, Quentin eyes me challengingly. He knows as well as I do, he won’t be getting a response. Not for such a stupid, yet admittedly obvious, observation.
“You haven’t spoken a single word to me in two weeks,” he eventually points out, even more unnecessarily.
Averting my gaze, I gulp down what’s left of my water, before gently setting the glass down on the counter. I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth, turn fully to face Quentin, and mirror his position with my ass against the sink and arms crossed over my chest. Gaze locking casually with his.
My pulse still thrums from my workout, sweat dripping down my neck and temples.
Between the ache in my chest and hamstrings telling me I definitely pushed it too hard on the weights, and the tingling flush I feel all down my exposed arms and across my face, I feel as close to alive as I’ve felt in days.
Fuck, weeks.
“I imagine if I called the school—hell, your friends…they’d probably say the same.”
I lift my shoulder. He’s not totally wrong.
Sure, I’ve kept up the farce when absolutely necessary. But I’ll be the first to acknowledge my usual gift for giving enough of a shit to blend has been notably missing.
Particularly since football ended…taking with it, the only distraction I could actually lose myself in. One that came with purpose. With stakes.
But even the high that came with leading the Archers to victory one last time wasn’t enough to cushion the crash that inevitably came that following Monday, when I found myself driving aimlessly around Crowley and its neighboring towns in a pathetic, futile attempt to keep myself from doing something stupid or destructive or both.
Something involving a certain doe-eyed lunatic I can’t fucking purge from my mind, no matter how much time has passed. No matter how much distance I’ve put between us…
Distance he so conveniently decided to adhere to, because apparently somewhere in that cracked eggshell of a skull he has, what I said to him that day—what I asked of him—actually got through to him.
And stuck.
Yes, I’m fully fucking aware this is what I wanted.
Yes, I should be grateful and relieved.
Yes, I know this is for the greater good.
But this is Aston we’re talking about.
I never actually thought he’d stay away.
That he’d give up.
I figured I might get a couple days—maybe a week, if I was really lucky—before he was back on his bullshit with renewed confidence and determination, cornering me in the school, stalking my practices, shamelessly spying on me from the fucking bushes wearing those ridiculous heart-shaped sunglasses.
But that’s not at all what happened.
It’s been over a month now, and if I didn’t see him with my own two eyes, shuffling despondently through the halls, devoid of all that I’ve come to know makes him…him…
I’d think he disappeared completely.
Dropped out after I dropped him.
Ceased to exist altogether, just like I wanted…
Right?
“Vale.”
Blowing out a breath, I give Quentin a curt nod, telling him I heard him. I’m listening.
It’s not as if I haven’t been expecting this conversation. It was only a matter of time.
His mouth thins like he’s gearing up to say something he knows I won’t like. Seeing as that list is pretty long these days… it’s not even worth guessing.
“You haven’t shut down like this since—”
“I know.” The words are uttered so quietly, so stiffly, it’s only thanks to him looking at me that he knows I spoke at all.
You haven’t shut down like this since I met you, is what he was going to say.
Since the last time you lost Aston, is what he would’ve really meant.
Except…
I didn’t lose Aston this time. He’s right fucking here in Crowley, walking the same halls I do, sharing the same air I fucking breathe.
And yet, he’s never felt as far away as he has these last six weeks. Even when he’s standing ten feet in front of me, looking both half a corpse and like every sweet sin I’ve denied myself… there’s this distance that’s never been there before. A sense of…resignation. Defeat.
Well, that is until today, when our gazes met across a crowded hallway, and finally, finally I spotted a flicker of the Aston I’ve come to know these last few months.
And while I know now that some, if not most, of his outlandish behavior is an act. A mask, not unlike the one I wear—only his is like something you’d see at a Mardi Gras parade with multi-colored feathers and enough sequins to set something on fire…
Not all of it is.
Because the thing is…he’s always been a little off.
Even as kids, he was unabashedly clingy—even back when my arrival was unwelcome, he was always there—and shamelessly demanding, and infuriatingly dense when it came to knowing when to shut the fuck up—intentionally so, because he’s far from stupid.
The only times I can recall him shutting down like this…disappearing within himself like he had for weeks…
Something bad is coming.
“You don’t have to talk to me,” Quentin says, pulling me from my thoughts, “if you don’t want to. But you should talk to someone. We agreed once you—”
“You told him,” I cut in softly, my voice still rusty from disuse. “Aston.”
Quentin’s eyes widen ever so faintly.
I nod and look down at my sock-clad feet.
I figured as much. Aston might be more cunning and perceptive than he lets on, but he’s also extremely self-absorbed. Especially this older, less predictable, far more delusional version of my foster brother.
So caught up the fairytale he weaved for us since moving here…well, it’s no surpise it took a third party spelling it the fuck out for him to finally open his eyes.
“Is that why you’ve shut me out?” Quentin inquires in a way that sounds soft and curious.
I level him with a flat, droll look as if to say, Really?
I’m petty, but I’d like to think I carry a little more maturity than a hormonal pre-teen giving his dad the silent treatment.
Quentin’s lips twitch, humor alighting his eyes.
Oh. He was just fucking with me.
Huffing irritably through my nose, I look away, and forcibly mutter, “Fuck off.”
He chuckles. “I’d apologize—for telling him, I mean—but…” His voice trails off.
He’s not sorry. There’s no point in saying the obvious out loud, so I just nod. I know.
And frankly, I don’t even care. That he told him, that he thought it wise to meddle, that he felt it was his place…
If anything, it’s exactly what both Aston and I needed.
A reality check.
I mean…why else would he actually listen to me and stay away this time, when he blatantly ignored all of my previous half-ass attempts to resist his advances and cut him out of my life for good?
It’s not as if I ever went out of my way to seek him out. Not until that day I showed up at his house unannounced.
No, he just kept coming back like a fucking boomerang.
Persistent, unbothered, and not daunted by my behavior in the least.
Until he learned what I am…and could no longer paint my cruel treatment with whatever pretty sentiments kept his hope alive up until then.
“Given how…unconcerned he was when I told him, I’m going to assume you’re the one who ended things.”
I don’t bother insisting there was nothing to end. Instead, I latch onto that first part. He must sense my confusion—my skepticism—because he says, “Don’t tell me he did.”
Clearing my throat, I give a quick shake of my head. No.
Quentin makes a soft sound of acknowledgment. Meanwhile, I grab my glass, and make my way to the fridge for a refill. Ignoring the way his gaze drills into me. As if he could unearth all the things I refuse to say.
There’s a soft intake of air, then—
“But he accepted your decision.”
Jaw working, I throw the water back in two gulps, swallowing it down roughly.
“…and you regret it.” It’s spoken so faintly, it’s a wonder I even hear it.
Snapping my head around with a glare, I bite out, “I don’t regret anything.”
Quentin’s brow creases, pity eking from his warm gaze. “Vale…”
Whirling around to face him, I spread my arms, empty glass still clutched in my hand. “I don’t. I got exactly what I wanted. Finally some fucking peace again. It’s almost as if the last few months didn’t happen. As if Aston’s not even fucking here!”
Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m whipping the glass at the wall.
It says a lot that Quentin doesn’t even flinch.
I suppose, just like I’ve been anticipating this conversation…he’s been bracing for my violence. Bracing for when I finally can’t take it anymore, and I can’t help but release some of this pent-up energy before I implode or do something infinitely worse…something permanent.
Not taking his eyes off me, he crosses his legs in front of him, putting even more of his weight on the countertop behind him. “So, what’s the problem then, Vale?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try again.”
I snarl, “I said I don’t—”
“And I don’t believe you.”
A heavy silence descends on the room.
In the back of my head, I hear an echo of Aston’s gritted outburst from that day so many weeks ago. “You’re lying to me. Boyfriends don’t lie to each other.”
He’s crazy. Fucking insane.
And yet, just like every time I recall our heated exchange that day, our near-kiss, the feel of him beneath me, all warm and squirmy with need…I can’t help but circle back to what transpired the night before.
Halloween.
The carnival.
The mines…the cornfields…
Finally succumbing to my primal need to claim him, own him…break him…
It’s a moment my mind just can’t seem to shake.