his face
in his hands. I want to go to him, and comfort him, but I don’t.
All of this frustration he feels needs to happen. He has to feel
how much it hurt me to see that shit, how much it’s going to
continue to fuck with my mind, and what that means for us. So
instead, I stand here and watch as he freaks out.
It starts with the tapping of his foot,
and then migrates to the shaking of his leg eventually becomes the
scrubbing of his face with his hands. Outside in the forecourt he
was losing his shit, but in here, he’s unraveling. When he gets a
hold of himself, he stares up at me, elbows still on his knees, and
says, “I fucked up.”
“ Yeah, you did,” I say,
but the words have no real venom to them. He lifts an arm for me to
go to him, but I don’t. Keeping my eyes trained on his, I shake my
head. He drops his arm and says nothing. He just stares at me. One
of us has to give in, and since I know damn well it’s not going to
be him, I go first.
“ We both
fucked up, but that was not okay,” I say, crossing my arms over my
chest.
“ Yeah,” he says and stands
to his full height. He comes to me and places his hands on my
hips. “Past is the past.”
“ No, that’s a fucking cop
out,” I say. I’m not screaming and I’m not whispering. I’m neither
livid nor afraid; I just feel kind of dead inside. “What you did
was wrong.”
“ Tried to call you, got no
answer. Last I heard from you, you told me I’d never touch you
again.”
“ Since when do you listen
to what I want or what I say? It’s awful convenient for you to
start now.”
“ I was pissed, okay? That
shit you pulled pissed me off, and I fucked up, did something I
regret,” he says, giving my hips a squeeze. “You shouldn’t have
seen that shit.”
“ Say it,” I demand and
take a step backward. He pulls me back to him, and even though
we’re quasi-fighting—I’m not sure this counts as fighting since
nobody is screaming and no punches are being thrownI like being in
his arms. It feels right and safe.
“ Say you’re sorry,” I say
again. His jaw tenses, and he stands stone still. I stand resolved
even though I doubt this is going to end well. Forsaken don’t
apologize, and they don’t beg. The silence in the room eats me
alive while I wait for words he’s determined never to
say.
“ You have to trust me,” he
says. “You gotta trust that from here on out I’m gonna do right by
you.”
“ I can’t,” I say. Trusting
him isn’t that simple, not after what I saw. Leaning down, he
kisses the shell of my ear and basks my neck in his warm
breath.
“ I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“I’m really fucking sorry that you had to see that shit.” I almost
feel the victory of getting him to say he’s sorry, but it doesn’t
happen.
“ I don’t want you to be
sorry that I saw it. I want you to be sorry that you did it,” I
whisper. Letting my head fall against the crook of his neck, I
close my eyes and breathe him in. Everything about him and this
situation is painful. From the first time I saw him and he looked
right through me, to the years he spent sleeping around and
bragging about every Brenda and Amy and Mandie he hooked up with,
to us finally hooking up, to every fight, and every soft moment. It
just hurts. And I don’t think relationships are supposed to be this
hard or this painful, so I give up.
“ And that’s why I can’t
trust you,” I say and pull back. The disappointment tears at my
open wounds and sends me reeling for something—anything—to make me
feel better. He fights me, trying to keep a grip on my hips, but I
shove him off while whispering the word no until it’s the only
thing I understand about what’s going on.
Finally, he steps back and slowly
shakes his head. “Don’t do this,” he says in a pained
voice.
“ This only works one way,”
I say, feeding him his own club’s bullshit lines. “We have to
respect each other, and I don’t respect you enough to be your
woman.”
in his hands. I want to go to him, and comfort him, but I don’t.
All of this frustration he feels needs to happen. He has to feel
how much it hurt me to see that shit, how much it’s going to
continue to fuck with my mind, and what that means for us. So
instead, I stand here and watch as he freaks out.
It starts with the tapping of his foot,
and then migrates to the shaking of his leg eventually becomes the
scrubbing of his face with his hands. Outside in the forecourt he
was losing his shit, but in here, he’s unraveling. When he gets a
hold of himself, he stares up at me, elbows still on his knees, and
says, “I fucked up.”
“ Yeah, you did,” I say,
but the words have no real venom to them. He lifts an arm for me to
go to him, but I don’t. Keeping my eyes trained on his, I shake my
head. He drops his arm and says nothing. He just stares at me. One
of us has to give in, and since I know damn well it’s not going to
be him, I go first.
“ We both
fucked up, but that was not okay,” I say, crossing my arms over my
chest.
“ Yeah,” he says and stands
to his full height. He comes to me and places his hands on my
hips. “Past is the past.”
“ No, that’s a fucking cop
out,” I say. I’m not screaming and I’m not whispering. I’m neither
livid nor afraid; I just feel kind of dead inside. “What you did
was wrong.”
“ Tried to call you, got no
answer. Last I heard from you, you told me I’d never touch you
again.”
“ Since when do you listen
to what I want or what I say? It’s awful convenient for you to
start now.”
“ I was pissed, okay? That
shit you pulled pissed me off, and I fucked up, did something I
regret,” he says, giving my hips a squeeze. “You shouldn’t have
seen that shit.”
“ Say it,” I demand and
take a step backward. He pulls me back to him, and even though
we’re quasi-fighting—I’m not sure this counts as fighting since
nobody is screaming and no punches are being thrownI like being in
his arms. It feels right and safe.
“ Say you’re sorry,” I say
again. His jaw tenses, and he stands stone still. I stand resolved
even though I doubt this is going to end well. Forsaken don’t
apologize, and they don’t beg. The silence in the room eats me
alive while I wait for words he’s determined never to
say.
“ You have to trust me,” he
says. “You gotta trust that from here on out I’m gonna do right by
you.”
“ I can’t,” I say. Trusting
him isn’t that simple, not after what I saw. Leaning down, he
kisses the shell of my ear and basks my neck in his warm
breath.
“ I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“I’m really fucking sorry that you had to see that shit.” I almost
feel the victory of getting him to say he’s sorry, but it doesn’t
happen.
“ I don’t want you to be
sorry that I saw it. I want you to be sorry that you did it,” I
whisper. Letting my head fall against the crook of his neck, I
close my eyes and breathe him in. Everything about him and this
situation is painful. From the first time I saw him and he looked
right through me, to the years he spent sleeping around and
bragging about every Brenda and Amy and Mandie he hooked up with,
to us finally hooking up, to every fight, and every soft moment. It
just hurts. And I don’t think relationships are supposed to be this
hard or this painful, so I give up.
“ And that’s why I can’t
trust you,” I say and pull back. The disappointment tears at my
open wounds and sends me reeling for something—anything—to make me
feel better. He fights me, trying to keep a grip on my hips, but I
shove him off while whispering the word no until it’s the only
thing I understand about what’s going on.
Finally, he steps back and slowly
shakes his head. “Don’t do this,” he says in a pained
voice.
“ This only works one way,”
I say, feeding him his own club’s bullshit lines. “We have to
respect each other, and I don’t respect you enough to be your
woman.”
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