19. Chapter 19
Rylen
“Maddox, get the fuck out of the shower!”
My fist slams against the bathroom door, hard enough to make it rattle in its hinges. Steam curls out from the crack beneath it, thick and mocking. He knows I’ve got a date tonight. He knows. He’s doing this just to be an asshole. Because of what, some stupid kiss that meant nothing to him anyway?
I hit the door again. “You’ve been in there for over an hour!” I bellow. No answer. Just the faint hiss of water and a low hum—he’s probably in there singing, just to piss me off. My jaw clenches so tightly it aches.
When the door finally creaks open, it’s like a bomb’s gone off inside; the floor is slick with puddles that spread like oil.
Shampoo bottles are scattered haphazardly all over the shower floor, my expensive face wash is pouring its guts down the drain.
There’s towels and dirty clothes strewn about, condensation sweating on every wall.
Maddox steps out wrapped in one of my towels, water dripping down his chest, hair plastered to his forehead. He doesn’t even look guilty.
“You’re unbelievable,” I exclaim, gesturing to the chaos. “You couldn’t leave me ten fucking minutes to shower?”
He shrugs, mouth curving like he’s fighting a grin. “Why are you even wasting your time on this loser, anyway?” Maddox sneers.
“Excuse me?” I ask, disbelievingly.
“You deserve someone worthy of your time,” he says matter-of-factly, voice sharp enough to cut.
“And what makes you think Bry isn’t?” I huff. He hesitates a beat too long before the corners of his mouth curl into a forced smile, and his voice melts into warmth that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Don’t worry about it. Sorry I fucked with your date. Enjoy your night,” he relents, trying to side step me. I bark out a laugh, slamming my palm against the doorframe to keep him in place.
“Nah, nah, nah, don’t backtrack now. What’s he done that’s so awful, huh? Because from where I’m standing, Bry’s been nothing but friendly towards you,” I demand, faking a defensive tone—the kind I know I should feel, but really don’t.
“He’s fine, I guess,” Maddox mutters. “Just… never figured long hair was your type.”
My arms fold across my chest, an incredulous scowl tugging at my features. “So because he’s got a dick, he shouldn’t have long hair? Is that seriously what you’re saying?”
“No, it’s not that. Of course—” he stammers, his voice catching as he fights to be understood. Something flickers behind his eyes, something raw and unguarded, almost pleading with me.
“Then what is it?” I push, stepping closer.
“You don’t want to sleep alone? Go call Felicia, I’m sure she’s happy to keep my spot warm,” I snap, pushing past him, my shoulder colliding with his ribcage.
The air between us shifts, it feels heavier, like a toxic waste cloud ready to poison everything in its path.
“I haven’t fucking touched her,” he calls out after me, the confession stops me dead in my tracks before I can slam the door shut in his face.
“Not since the threesome…” he continues, softening with each syllable.
He looks so young, so lost. It reminds me of the scrawny kid who would fall asleep in my bunk while I sang to him.
“There’s no one else, Ry. It's just you,” he rasps, his throat tight with a shame he can’t hide anymore.
He looks so defeated, his eyes dark with the kind of vulnerability that makes me want to run.
The words hang between us in a weighted silence.
My mouth opens and closes uselessly—there’s nothing I can say to that.
His brows pinch together, desperately trying to get his message across. His eyes are begging and pleading with me to stay in this moment with him.
“I just thought, if you ever dated a man,” he pauses, the words cracking in the middle, “that it would be—”
“Be what?” I scoff, already done with this conversation. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to think about the stupid fucking thing we just did in the kitchen. Or the effect he has on me, and why I can never let myself have it again.
Seriously, that was the last time I'm ever going to let myself slip.
If he wont stop, well then… he can… I don't even know.
But this needs to be finished. I can't allow him to love me, I can't allow myself to love him…
Loving me is dangerous and I can't let him risk everything for someone who probably isn't even truly capable of being with him. It's not the life he deserves.
An ear-piercing, suffocating silence follows. Steam ghosts around us, clinging to his skin, to mine, to the walls. The muscle in his jaw jumps, and he only stares in response. His throat works like he’s trying to force the words out but can’t, and suddenly, I’m not sure if I even want to hear them.
“Be… me,” he admits, barely above a whisper.
Before I can breathe, or even process his confession, he’s got a hand on my jaw and his mouth is crashing into mine.
It’s a desperate tangle of lips and teeth and tongue, like he’s drowning and I’m his oxygen tank.
My brain short-circuits and for a second, I’m frozen in place, fighting not to give in to my basal urges.
I can’t—not when I’ve worked this hard to fight them.
I’m not going to let him ruin us over his fear of being replaced.
So I shove him back, hard enough that water splashes up from the floor as he stumbles.
My heart’s hammering out of my chest, breath all over the place.
He looks wrecked, his lips are flushed and skin bitten.
I don’t even know what he wants from me, but I can’t stay here.
So I don’t. I step past him, grab my keys and walk out the front door.
My hands are trembling the whole way to my car.
By the time I’m sitting across from Bry at a quiet restaurant downtown, I'm just going through the motions, without really being present. I'm smiling when I’m supposed to, and laughing at things I barely hear because I’m lost in a memory.
The restaurant hums around us with the sound of clinking glasses, and the low murmur of people who don’t have the weight of a kiss burning a hole through their chest. I can still feel it, the heat of Maddox’s mouth, the scrape of scattered stubble against my skin, the way his breath hitched right before I pulled back.
It’s like my body’s stuck in that bathroom even though my mind’s trying to be here.
Bry's telling me about some indie gig his band played last weekend, and I’m nodding along like my brain isn’t a fucking storm.
My ear, which had been bearable during the day, was beginning its nightly ritual of dull, pressure-filled agony. I find myself tapping my leg under the table, unable to hold still for long, and catch myself wincing whenever Bry laughs too loudly, and I hate it. I hate every second of it.
Usually, for my birthday I’d already be three beers deep on the sofa. Maddox and I would be arguing over which 80s slasher flick to watch first, the living room would be a mess of pizza boxes, and I wouldn’t have to pretend to be "on."
Bry smiles, tucks his long hair behind his ear, and my stomach twists because he’s beautiful. He’s everything I should want. Kind eyes, no mind-games, the sort of calm that should level me out. The kind of stability I should crave… except I don’t.
“So, how’s Maddox?” he asks, completely innocently, sipping his wine. The word feels like a slap.
“Same as always,” I say, forcing a grin. “Pain in my ass.” My pulse jumps. Bry laughs, it’s a warm and genuine sound, and I hate that I can’t sink into it. I hate that part of me wants to go home, to walk through the door and start another argument just to see if Maddox will kiss me again.
Maddox's outburst at the bathroom door was completely justified, I should have seen that. He knew I was breaking the one rule we have: birthdays are ours. I’m an idiot for being here, and I’m an idiot for thinking Bry could distract me from the fact that I left the most important person in my entire universe, standing in a steam-filled bathroom back at the apartment, probably wanting to kill me.
Bry’s still talking, something about travel plans, I only catch every third word, honestly he seems fine talking to himself.
My fork scrapes against the plate. I nod at the right times.
I drink too much. He doesn’t notice my internal struggle, he’s too busy telling the waiter how good the Ratatoullie is.
I force a smile that feels like tissue paper.
Why did Mads have to fucking tell me tonight, of all nights?
When Bry leans across the table, fingers brushing mine, I flinch. Just a tiny twitch, but it’s enough that his smile falters and fuck, I’m such a piece of shit. “You okay?” he asks, genuine concern filling his voice.
“Yeah,” I lie, swallowing down the truth like shards of glass. “Just tired.”
But what I really mean is, I’m completely fucked. I look at my phone—face up on the table—and the guilt amplifies tenfold. My phone lights up with so many missed calls and texts that it looks like there’s been an actual emergency.
Maddox, Maddox, Maddox.
Each vibration feels louder than the last, like Maddox’s voice has somehow found its way into the device, and he's taunting me. I picture him pacing our apartment, jaw tight, hand clenched in his hair. He’ll be pissed that I’m ignoring him, but underneath that, he’ll be scared. He always is when he pushes me too far.
Bry's hazel eyes catch the light as he gestures with his glass, talking animatedly about his band’s next gig.
I should be leaning into that, soaking it up.
Instead, I’m watching my phone like it’s a live wire.
It buzzes again, rattling against the wood and my fingers clench around the edges of the table, until my knuckles blanche .
Bry’s gaze flicks to it, then back to me. “You can grab it, if you need to.”