It’s the best place to have fun and explore. I’ll get over it in no time—just wait and see.”
He seemed chagrined. “I don’t want you breezing through men like that, Chlo. No, you’re far too good for that.”
Well, that thought might be exclusive to him. Besides, for him to preach that I was too good for anyone when I had surpassed his apparent meager standards, how did one consider it: a fault or a misfortune?
The answer eluded me, exactly like my love life. That should be remedied soon, or it would forever remain non-existent. Some would even recommend trying variety, dating someone who was definitely not your particular type. But, hey, whatever; I could only handle one problem at a time. Tomorrow was another day.
Stiffly shrugging, I immediately felt the burden of this ceaseless tragedy. My body felt beyond taxed and in dire need of sleep, preferably with those pain killers. Yeah, it was high time I retired for the night. Niklaus Mikaelson, Drew, and the rest of the stubborn, dominant men could wait for another day.
“Do you mind handing me the crutches? I think I’m going to hit the sack.”
It was moments like these that I needed to be alone to regroup, be reflective, stay appreciative. Even if things were presently shitty, there was still so much to be grateful for. Applying positivity could go a long way when it came to uplifting tattered confidence.
My momentary courage hit a pause when I found Drew’s face bewildered.
“Don’t be mad,” he pleaded.
Well, I hadn’t been pissed off before, but oddly enough, I was now. All the mental pep talks I’d had moments ago instantly vanished, replaced by something I couldn’t care to name. Oh, why did he have to open that mouth of his?
“I’m not mad,” I snapped, past caring that he might see more of me and what lay beneath my chipped armor. Nostrils flaring, I glared at him. “Just hand them to me … please. I’d reach them if I could, but it’s too far.”
He was holding the vertical devices hostage, and it was rubbing me the wrong way. If he didn’t want me to be pissed off, he had a funny way of showing it.
Unperturbed about my shift of mood, he chose remain stubborn by not granting me my request.
“I’m carrying you to your room. End of story,” he stonily stated as he got up.
Why did he always manage to get the last word?
I fumed, on the verge of screaming. I didn’t want him touching me again. Nevertheless, with little to no warning, he smoothly collected me in his arms, hoisting me up before heading toward my bedroom without missing a step. Upon entering my space, he then proceeded toward the bed before cautiously depositing me on the mattress. I had figured that he would leave me in peace, yet he had other thoughts in mind.
While sitting right on the edge of the bed, he unexpectedly cupped my face. “Chloe, what did I do wrong?” he softly asked. “I thought you said you understood. If this isn’t about that, then what is it?”
I did understand. What had happened in the living room was a result of hysteria and the inability to channel my emotions properly. One of the things I despised about myself was how I processed disappointment. It usually resulted in mood swings, vindictive and unsystematic spurts of hurt and anger. I was in the wrong, even if my emotions were justified. Regardless, forming apologies took longer to process, partly in fear I would get too impassioned. Therefore, the best solution was to mince my words effectively without appearing too invested in the subject.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you, and I meant it when I said I understood your reasons behind the decisions you made.” There I was, halfway through; I could do this. Yay, mature version of me. “Honestly, I don’t blame you, not at all. This is all on me … for growing up thinking you’re the only man I’d ever be with since I was eight years old. It’s my fault for always holding out hope, so much so that it blinded me from the
He seemed chagrined. “I don’t want you breezing through men like that, Chlo. No, you’re far too good for that.”
Well, that thought might be exclusive to him. Besides, for him to preach that I was too good for anyone when I had surpassed his apparent meager standards, how did one consider it: a fault or a misfortune?
The answer eluded me, exactly like my love life. That should be remedied soon, or it would forever remain non-existent. Some would even recommend trying variety, dating someone who was definitely not your particular type. But, hey, whatever; I could only handle one problem at a time. Tomorrow was another day.
Stiffly shrugging, I immediately felt the burden of this ceaseless tragedy. My body felt beyond taxed and in dire need of sleep, preferably with those pain killers. Yeah, it was high time I retired for the night. Niklaus Mikaelson, Drew, and the rest of the stubborn, dominant men could wait for another day.
“Do you mind handing me the crutches? I think I’m going to hit the sack.”
It was moments like these that I needed to be alone to regroup, be reflective, stay appreciative. Even if things were presently shitty, there was still so much to be grateful for. Applying positivity could go a long way when it came to uplifting tattered confidence.
My momentary courage hit a pause when I found Drew’s face bewildered.
“Don’t be mad,” he pleaded.
Well, I hadn’t been pissed off before, but oddly enough, I was now. All the mental pep talks I’d had moments ago instantly vanished, replaced by something I couldn’t care to name. Oh, why did he have to open that mouth of his?
“I’m not mad,” I snapped, past caring that he might see more of me and what lay beneath my chipped armor. Nostrils flaring, I glared at him. “Just hand them to me … please. I’d reach them if I could, but it’s too far.”
He was holding the vertical devices hostage, and it was rubbing me the wrong way. If he didn’t want me to be pissed off, he had a funny way of showing it.
Unperturbed about my shift of mood, he chose remain stubborn by not granting me my request.
“I’m carrying you to your room. End of story,” he stonily stated as he got up.
Why did he always manage to get the last word?
I fumed, on the verge of screaming. I didn’t want him touching me again. Nevertheless, with little to no warning, he smoothly collected me in his arms, hoisting me up before heading toward my bedroom without missing a step. Upon entering my space, he then proceeded toward the bed before cautiously depositing me on the mattress. I had figured that he would leave me in peace, yet he had other thoughts in mind.
While sitting right on the edge of the bed, he unexpectedly cupped my face. “Chloe, what did I do wrong?” he softly asked. “I thought you said you understood. If this isn’t about that, then what is it?”
I did understand. What had happened in the living room was a result of hysteria and the inability to channel my emotions properly. One of the things I despised about myself was how I processed disappointment. It usually resulted in mood swings, vindictive and unsystematic spurts of hurt and anger. I was in the wrong, even if my emotions were justified. Regardless, forming apologies took longer to process, partly in fear I would get too impassioned. Therefore, the best solution was to mince my words effectively without appearing too invested in the subject.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you, and I meant it when I said I understood your reasons behind the decisions you made.” There I was, halfway through; I could do this. Yay, mature version of me. “Honestly, I don’t blame you, not at all. This is all on me … for growing up thinking you’re the only man I’d ever be with since I was eight years old. It’s my fault for always holding out hope, so much so that it blinded me from the
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