Chapter 8 #2
Not him. Not this one.
“You’ll forget about this by next week,” I say. “It’s fine.”
His eyes die on me,
breath going with them.
I meant to cut, not gut,
but the way his eyes go gray and still
is a funeral.
As if I already rewound the night
and erased him from it.
“What?” His brows raise. “Nah—hey. Don’t.” He grabs my hand tighter. “Don’t do that… don’t shut it down like it meant nothin’.”
I want to tell him it meant too much,
but saying it would only hurt him more.
And I can’t stand seeing him hurt at all.
I can’t lie to him either.
“We had a deal,” I say, burying the truth in a coffin carved by indifference.
His eyes narrow, a trigger half-pulled, hurt pressing up against the silence as we stare at each other.
“So that’s it?” He nods, shocked,
a half-laugh, half-breath escaping him.
“I’m just a good story you’re never gonna tell nobody?”
“You’ll get over it,” I say.
And I hate myself the second I say it.
His eyes flash to mine,
the four words striking him.
Then he repeats it, “You’ll get over it.”
Deadpan, hollow,
eyes bouncing between mine,
searching for a piece of me
that still wants this.
“Jesus. You’ve got the whole thing figured out. Already rewriting this night in your head, huh? The lies you’ll tell yourself to believe none of this was real. That this didn’t fuck you up too.”
I know if I leave, it’ll hurt him.
But if I stay—
I’ll hurt him again.
And again.
And again.
And…
I slip my hand away from his.
As if it’s still mine.
But it doesn’t feel like mine.
Not anymore.
I’m searching for my purse,
then remember not bringing bring one.
“I know what you’re gonna do.”
He says it as if it’s already happening.
“You’re gonna go home, shower this night off, and pretend it never fuckin’ happened. Say it was nothin’. Just a one-time thing. Kinda thing happens all the time, yeah?”
I close my eyes.
I want to tell him he’s wrong,
but I can’t.
I want to tell him to stop,
but my voice is broken.
“You’re gonna lie to yourself," he says. "Tell yourself—he’s not even thinkin’ about me, he’s forgettin’ me, he’s fine, he’s fuckin’ over it, doin’ the same shit, different girl—” His voice halts.
He blows out a breath. “Fuck.”
A hand drags down his face,
and his brows raise.
“Can’t even fuckin’ go there with you still in my mouth.”
A second goes by as he closes his eyes and breathes out.
Then opens them again.
“But you’ll say whatever you gotta say to yourself, spin whatever bullshit to hide behind to make this easier.” He jerks his chin toward the exit. “But before you walk out, I want you to really fuckin’ hear me.”
He waits 'til he has both my gaze and my next breath.
“You’ll be wrong. You’ll be so fuckin’ wrong,” he says, gentle now. “It happened. It was real. And I ain't gettin' over it. I’ll be thinkin’ about this. About you. Tomorrow. Next week. Fuckin’ years from now. ‘Cause this wasn’t nothin’ for me.”
Fuck him.
Fuck him for cutting off every exit I was already halfway down.
“I’m gonna think about you, Sonny,”
he says, defeated,
and it hurts me in the ribcage.
“There,”
he steps back,
“stripped all the fuckin’ lies.
“Nothin’ to hide behind.
“You don’t get to pretend this was nothin’.
“Now you gotta carry it, same as me.”
That was then.
And yeah.
I’m carrying it. Every fucking day.
Another cigarette’s wedged between my lips.
Back to the sidewalk.
Back to now,
to the cold air,
and Andrew
waiting on the other side of the window.
I bring the lighter to my mouth.
My thumb clicks once.
The wind steals the flame.
My thumb clicks again—
But then I hear a collection of familiar notes.
I freeze,
thumb pressed to the lighter wheel,
heart wide-eyed and pounding.
The song's moving,
drawing closer,
getting louder,
sliding up the sidewalk toward me.
I glance up.
Black boots, blonde ponytail,
she's walking too fast
with her earbuds tucked in, volume high.
Her lips are mouthing the words I once bled,
belonging to her now.
She doesn’t see me and keeps walking.
And I stand there,
cigarette unlit, flame long gone,
thinking about the night I wrote it.
How bad I needed
to be seen without being touched,
held without being taken apart,
loved without being used.
Now I’m staring at the one guy who could’ve taken everything he wanted.
And he still said no to taking just my body.
Said no to fucking the night down
into nothing worth remembering.
He said no to protect it all along.
For the both of us.
God—he saw me that night.
And I fucking left
as if I wasn’t starving for that exact thing,
like I haven’t been slowly bleeding out for it.
I take one step.
Then another.
The unlit cigarette falls from my fingers.
And I keep going.
Until I’m crossing the street.
I’m halfway there
when the memory chases me.
The look on his face before I walked out the door…
I glance back.
And it’s a mistake.
He’s standing there, shoulders hunched,
leaning against the brick,
one arm crossed over his chest,
the other fist pressed to his mouth,
trying to hold back his heart,
words,
and breath all at the same time.
His belt’s hanging open,
hair fucked, face flushed,
blue veins raised in both arms,
fighting to trap the breakdown in his bloodstream.
And those eyes…
They’re begging.
Like if I take one more step,
his next breath leaves with me.
I hit the curb, making it across to the other side.
Catch the brass handle in one hand.
The door sticks at first.
Then the bell rattles,
the door swinging open.
I give myself a second before turning,
but I already feel him.
His stare's fading into me,
slipping under my skin,
pulling at me,
a tide in my blood.
I lift my head.
And the second our eyes meet,
the world drowns.
Like a heartbeat slowing down.
The streetlights smear sideways,
everything slipping away,
but him,
and me.
His whole body snaps to stillness—
one hand frozen around the cup,
foot paused mid-tap.
His breath’s on hold. His pulse, too.
All of it’s waiting on me,
scared that even breathing
will break whatever brought me here.
Like if he moves, I’ll disappear.
His face is statue—
longing caught in a photograph.
Jaw locked, his eyes sinking
and sinking
and crushing my chest.
And it’s like I’m standing here, in front of him,
falling.
Even so, my heart’s on its hands and knees,
crawling toward him with or without me.
I walk closer, not letting go of his stare,
stopping a few feet from his table.
He turns in his barstool, throat bobbing,
still in the way storms are
right before they break—
quiet, holding everything in his chest.
I nudge my chin at the second coffee cup.
“You waiting on someone?”
His shoulders collapse,
the weight of twenty-eight nights
finally sliding off him.
His brows lift, wrecked,
and he gestures toward me.
A breath finally leaves him, a little torn.
“Been waitin’ for you this whole time.”
He sits, hands slack,
hope pouring off him in waves,
begging me to close the distance
to put him out of his misery.
I cross the last few feet,
then crash into him,
my arms wrapping around his neck,
my body slipping between his spread thighs,
my heart slamming against bone.
I’m here. You win, you stubborn, beautiful idiot.
But soon, you’re gonna wish you hadn’t.
A second ticks by.
Then his arms slide around my waist,
drawing me into his chest.
His face buries in my neck,
and when he exhales,
it’s shaky, hot, fucking ragged,
like finally letting it out almost killed him.