My hand slides slowly from the center of his chest up to his throat. Carefully, my inky black fingers encircle it, feeling his pulse against my palm.
For a moment, we’re frozen in this position. He’s fuming, nostrils flared and chest pumping with rage. I notice a tremor in his bottom lip, and it brings back so many memories that singe my heart like poison. Memories of vulnerable nights and passionate reunions. It really doesn’t matter how much I say I don’t care about Colin anymore when I can still remember how that bottom lip feels against my tongue.
His gaze briefly drops to my mouth, and I wonder if he’s currently reliving the same memories. But then, he roughly shoves me away until I stumble backward, releasing his throat.
“Fuck you, Declan. You are a miserable bastard. You’re just jealous that I’ve found someone who actually cares about me, and you’ll probably die alone.”
“Good,” I bark through gritted teeth.
“Honestly, that’s what you deserve.” There’s a tremble in his voice, and it hurts more than the words themselves.
There is still black paint smeared across Colin’s throat and the front of his blue satin pajamas as he rushes out of my studio. My heart is pounding in my chest as anger courses through my veins.
This is only the first day of this fucking bet, and already it’s a disaster, but I don’t care. I’m going to get through the next six days and finally have this place to myself.
Colin was right about one thing. I am going to die alone.
With no one to disappoint me. No one to abandon me. No one to break my fucking heart.
On that thought, I grab the can of black paint and splash the entirety of it over the painting of the woman on the grass. I watch as the last six months of work fades behind the darkness. It devours every inch of the image, and I try not to feel anything as she slowly disappears.
Chapter Nine
Colin
Twelve years ago
Oxford
The pub is packed, as it always is during the last week of the term. Declan has a table of eight enthralled with his story: two girls on either side of him, a few guys from our year, and then me. Although I’ve heard this story a hundred times already, it’s his favorite to tell.
“So that fucker,” he says with a drunk slur, pointing at me with an unlit cigarette, “decides to take off sprinting, piss drunk and stumbling all over the place.”
The table erupts with laughter, and even the girls turn toward me with smiles, but I only shake my head at Declan.
Of course, he’s embellishing the story a bit. He’s telling them about the time we nicked a bottle of champagne at the Eiffel Tower from a couple of tourists making out on their picnic blanket. It was the summer between years two and three when we decided to ditch our families and spend a week in the City of Light.
I didn’t take off sprinting, and the police didn’t chase us. But I was piss drunk. That part was accurate.
“We got away with it,” I say with a shrug.
“Aye, we did,” he replies. “And we had averyromantic evening drinking bubbly while we watched the tower sparkle.”
“Très romantique,” one of the girls says with a bad French accent.
My eyes trail downward as I remember the rest of that night, and it actually wasn’t romantic at all. We got wicked headaches from the cheap champagne, got sick, and passed out in our hotel room. Nothing that I desperately wanted to happen with Declan that night happened.
It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve successfully managed to conceal my ever-growing feelings for Declan over the years. I’d rather have him as a friend than not have him at all. And I refuse to say or do anything that could jeopardize that.
For four years, I’ve suffocated this attraction. For four years, I’ve had to listen to his sexual escapades, all with women. Four years I’ve had the words on the tip of my tongue, wishing I could just tell him how I feel. Four years I’ve held off from pursuing others. And now, we’re about to graduate. He promises we’ll still meet up every summer, but what if that starts to fade?
He’ll find love with someone else. New friends. New adventures. A new life.
What if this is it?
What if I spend the rest of my life regretting not telling him how I feel?
Declan gets into a private conversation with one of the girls while I’m staring at the messy, beer-stained table, lost in my thoughts of regret and fear.
