“Last night was a mistake,” he says softly.
His words feel like a punch to my chest. “It didn’t feel like a mistake.”
“It never does. But believe me, it was a mistake. I’m a mistake for you.”
Hurt and confusion rain down on me. His words are ugly and harsh, but the shadows in his eyes ripple like shallow water lapping the shore. Approaching and retreating. Flinching when they get too close. “You’re wrong, Jessie. You’re not a mistake.”
“I am. I’m the biggest mistake you’ll ever make.”
“You’re not.”
“Iam.”
“Are not!”
He rolls his eyes at me crossly. I’m perversely pleased that I’ve finally caused a reaction, even if it’s not the one I want.
“Don’t be a fucking idiot, Luke. I’m not arguing about this with you. I’m the kind of guy who’ll hurt you. You’ll just have to take that from me. I’ll fucking wreck you and I won’t even mean to do it. I make everyone around me unhappy. I try not to, but I do. I always have. I’m not a good person. I’m angry and I’m hateful and I can’t help that about myself.”
“You’re not angry.”
That really gets a reaction from him. His eyes blaze. He’s definitely angry now.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to tell other people how they feel, Luke. I think that’s a thing. We’re all supposed to be experts on ourselves, isn’t that right?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“So if I say I’m angry, I’mangry!”
He’s yelling now and it’s making me angry, too. I don’t understand why the things he says and the things I feel vibrating off him never match up. “You’re not angry, you ass,” I yell back at him, “you’re sad.”
That takes the wind out of his sails. He takes a step back and falls silent. He opens his mouth and closes it again. He looks at me for a long time, pushing his hands into his pockets and shrugging after a while. He gives me a fucked up little smile that looks like it hurts him as much as it hurts me.
Sad boy with soulful eyes and sex in his veins.
“I know you’re a good person, Jessie.”
His eyes spark and then dull. He looks away quickly and then goes back to his room, closing the door firmly behind him.
13
Jessie
It’sbeenanawfulweek. It’s been fucking horrendous and that’s putting it mildly. I haven’t known what to do with myself. I called my mom yesterday and asked if she missed me. She said, “Of course, baby,” but she didn’t sound as convincing as I hoped she would. She was running late to meet Neil, so she couldn’t talk for long. She sounded distracted. She’s one of those people who can only really focus on one thing at a time. All my life it’s made me feel choked with anger when she shifts her focus off me. It makes me feel crazy. Like I don’t exist. I felt like I had a weight on my chest and my eyes stung when she hung up. I didn’t even have time to ask her if she wanted me to come home, which was pretty much the whole point of my call.
By Friday I’m feeling so fucked up that around three in the afternoon I head over to the main house to raid the fridge. It’s groaning with food, but we’re shit out of beer. Just my luck. I go to the entertainment room and raid the bar. I find a bottle of vodka and crack it open.
“Whatcha doing?” says Luke, swinging himself in through the doorway with such force he’s only a few feet away from me by the time he’s able to stop himself.
I pour a large measure of vodka into a glass and knock it back. I look at him as I swallow, smiling thinly and say, “Nothing.”
He looks at me with an uncomfortable blend of concern and judgement. I don’t like it. It irritates me. I take another shot and stroll over to the pool table. I pick up a cue and chalk it. “Wanna play?”
I wince as I hear the words leave my mouth. They echo the words I said that night in his room and this time they make me feel empty. And angry.
And yes, I do fucking know the difference between anger and sadness, thank you very much.
“Sure,” he says, never one to miss an opportunity to move a ball from A to B.
