Above all, it’s the way they eye fuck each other when there’s a lull in conversation that makes my skin crawl. Not because I think it’s wrong or because I’m mad that it’s happening, per se, but because they make it look so effortless.
How the fuck do I compete with effortless?
Fuuuuck, I inwardly sigh. Why is this weighing so heavily on me? Why do I even care? I’ve worked entirely too hard through sheer will and determination to not care about anyone, for someguy to ruin it all in six months. Who am I kidding. Mitch stopped beingsome guyquite some time ago.
Not so deep down, I know I deserve to have their affection rubbed in my face. I’m not the easiest person to tear down, but I never expected Mitch to be so purposefully cruel. At least I came to the party. The least he could do is not ignore the shit out of me while being so far up Ian’s ass in spiting distance. I expect to be fucked up behind closed doors when I’m on my knees begging for it, not laid out with my emotions on the brink of exposure.
The beast he’s helped me cage over the last few months gnaws at my insides as the realization of how royally I fucked up hits me like a punch to the gut. Watching the two of them from across the room makes me want to vomit the guilt festering in the pit of my stomach all over the worn beige carpet of Mitch’s living room. Clearly, I’m not cut out for this fuck buddy bullshit.
In a failed attempt to center myself, I exhale the entirety of my lungs in one quick huff. How am I even supposed to approach this? It’s not like I have a valid reason to feel this way. I can’t be mad at Mitch for fucking someone else when we made it very clear we aren’t exclusive.
Fuck buddies. That’s all that we are. How could I be so needy to think we could possibly be anything more? Even I can admit that Ian is perfect for him. Ian has a habit of putting Mr. Rogers to shame. He’s considerate, compassionate, funny, and always has a positive outlook on absolutely everything, and I can’t fucking stand him.
His overwhelming optimism is the polar opposite of the pessimistic fortitude I’ve built around myself over a lifetime. As hard as I’ve tried to tolerate Ian, for Mitch’s sake, something about his glass-half-full mentality always seems to piss me off.
It’s not exactly jealousy, either. Not in the way most might think. As hard as it is to admit, if I were to be stripped of my flesh, you could read the etchings of parental abandonment onmy bones. After a life spent without a mother and competing with my stepmother for my father’s attention, Ian is now another person I have to compete with for the attention of someone I care about.
Not that it’s ever been a real competition, anyway.
Not with Ian.
Not with my stepmother.
I could never seem to compete with a woman who would throw herself at my father's feet whenever I needed him. No matter what I had to offer—honor roll, recitals, graduations, heartbreak…my stepmother always won his attention, and I was always alone.
So, of course, I move halfway across the country and find myself wrapped up in yet another fucking competition. This time, with a man everyone around me sees as a beacon of light in a sick dark world, but that’s not how Ian shines onme.
For me, Ian's light isn’t a source of comfort like a warm ray of sunshine on my skin. It’s a scorching fire hot enough to burn everything I am to the ground, leaving nothing but ash.
That’show I feel around Ian Summers.
Ash.
A pile of burnt nothingness.
Ian is the personification of all the happiness I never got the chance to experience in my life. He’s bursting at the seams with the light from every moment I was denied a chance to shine, and with every glance in my direction, he’s shoving it all down my throat at once, making me feel both cared for and supremely inadequate.
Every time I look at him, it feels like he’s poking at my shell to get a rise out of me. A fuck you gesture woven into every joke, every laugh, every wink. I hate him for it, and I hate myself more for putting myself in the position to be so fucking bothered by it.
I don’t think Ian hates me. I don’t think Ian hates anyone, but his thousand-watt smile is different when it’s aimed at me. If thereisanything in this world that Ian hates, it’s probably me. The angry bitch from work who’s fucking his best friend. Maybe we can bond over how much I hate myself.
THREE
Having finally had enough of this pity party, I peel myself off the couch, ready to call it a night and drown my sorrows somewhere I can be angry and bitter without judgment. Mitch can continue to ignore me as revenge, and I can move on and Google the next town that will ruin me.
At least then, I can accept my inability to share and live a life of one-night stands, daring any man to even attempt to get close to me again. I can be the town’s reclusive whore, but at least I’ll be content with my life choices. They always say the grass is greener on the other side, but it’s so fucking hard to look at the ground beneath my feet and never see a single shade of green.
A burst of laughter echoes through the room, and I shift my gaze toward the source just in time to see the four losers who work in the mailroom at the bookshop, sloshing beer from their cups as they stumble across the floor, singing off-key and heading straight toward me.
I stumble to get out of their way, but it’s too late. Beer and hands cascade down my body. The cold liquid quickly soaks through my shirt and bra, which now lay wet and sticky against my skin. Their hands grab at me to keep me upright but linger longer than necessary as they apologize in slurred speech without a single look of apology on any of their faces—just mocking smiles and wandering hands.
Paul, their department lead, even has the balls to run his hand along the curve of my ass while locking eyes with me. My gutgurgles with unease, and every alarm bell in my body is blaring at full volume to get as far away from him as possible.
“What the fuck!” I shout, pushing their hands away and taking a step back. “Don’t fucking touch me!” I spit. My tone is vicious, slicing through the room as I glare at the four of them, and like a gift from the universe, a delicious thought crosses my mind. I know logically I shouldn’t be mad at Mitch, but who’s going to stop me from taking all of my anger and frustrations out on these motherfuckers.
To be fair he groped me first. That’s assault. And I’m nothing if not prone to fight fire with fire.
My chest heaves with anger, fueling the fire burning inside me, and I go against my better judgment and allow it to engulf me completely. I let the anger spread like wildfire through every nerve and every muscle, ready to let it consume me with no regard for the consequences.
