“Well, it’s time for a tearjerker, Blackwell, I hope you like it,” I say, my voice shaking with a fury born of pure pain. “My mum died when I was eight. She loved Christmas. After she was gone, I went to live with my aunt and uncle, who despise me and who haven’t put up a single decoration in years. I wanted to do this… I wanted to make one good Christmas, because it’s the only happy memory I have left of her.” The tears are falling now, hot and shameful on my cheeks. “But you’re probably right. I’m just kidding myself. It’s just a stupid school party that no one will come to. Just a pathetic attempt by the biggest loser in college to pretend he has a life.”
The color drains from his face. He goes so pale he looks ill, his blue eyes stark and wide. He sees my tears.
I try to push past him, to get out of the tiny, suffocating room, but his hand shoots out and grabs the sleeve of my jumper.
“No,” he croaks, his voice broken. “No, Artie, no…”
“Let go of me.”
I yank my arm free. I push him, hard, in the center of his chest. He stumbles back a step, looking stunned, lost, and on the verge of genuine panic.
“Come to the prep tomorrow,” I say, my voice cold and dead. “If you actually give a shit about me, you’ll be there. But I’m not expecting you.”
I reach for the door handle.
“Artie, wait—”
“Don’t touch me right now,” I warn him without looking back.
And I leave him standing alone in the dark.
12
Chapter 12
The door to my room is closed and locked, but it doesn’t feel safe. It feels like a cage where I’m trapped with my own echoing words and the image of Raiden’s shattered expression.
I pace the small space, from the drafting table to the window and back again, my body thrumming with a restless, agonizing energy.
Hours have passed. The adrenaline has long since worn off, leaving behind the cold, heavy dregs of shame. A hot, crawling shame that feels unbearable.
I wrap my arms around myself, cringing as my own voice plays on a loop in my head.It’s time for a tearjerker, I hope you like it.
I actually said that.
I unloaded a decade of grief and loneliness on a guy in a dusty utility closet like it was some cheap, manipulative trick. I’ve never done that before.
I’ve never lost control like that, never let anyone see that broken, pathetic part of myself. But Raiden… he pushes and pushes until something gives, and this time, it was me. All of me. I practically burst into tears in front of him.
And beneath the shame, a cold thread of suspicion tries to pull tight. My rational mind is screaming at me. Raiden knew the name of my painting,Winter’s Respite. Hours later, that very painting, newly and expensively framed, shows up in the middle of a sabotage site. Coincidence? It feels too neat, too specific. His sudden, fierce protectiveness, his insistence that I stay away from the party. Is it genuine concern, or is it part of some larger, incomprehensible game?
Is he the saboteur trying to keep me from my own party for some sick reason, or is he protecting me from someone else?
If he hadn’t spent the last six months messing with my mind, if he hadn’t just had me moaning and coming apart in his hand, I would have asked him. I would have demanded answers. But my brain is no longer a reliable narrator.
All the logic, all the negative thoughts and red flags, are being drowned out by the memory of his mouth on mine, by the raw desperation in his voice when he said my name.
And by the absolute devastation in his eyes when he saw my tears. Christ, can’t believe it’s real…
And that’s the most shameful part of all. My primary emotion isn’t fear or anger. It’s a gut-wrenching anxiety over whathemust think ofme. He came looking for me, he was jealous, he wanted me. And in return, I gave him hysterics. I showed him the weakest, ugliest part of myself and then I pushed him away.
If his feelings were real, if any of this was sincere… what will he think of me now? Did I just confirm every bad assumptionhe might have had about the fragile, emotional art kid and destroyed the one incredible thing that was starting to happen between us?
He has to come tomorrow.
That’s the only way I’ll know. If he shows up for the final prep, after everything I said, then it’s real. He has to.
~ ~ ~
