What absolutely no one knows is what the fuck is up with Romeo. Why’s he been looking at me like that? And why didn’t he stop me when I put my tongue in his mouth? Why did he kiss me back, and why did he kiss me like that? Like I was air and he was suffocating. He’s married. His wife could have walked in on us. It was fucking insane. The stupidity of it makes me break into a cold sweat again.
And what the fuck was all that about the honeymoon?
This whole thing is doing my head in. I can’t think of anything else, but the problem is that every time I think of something that happened, I remember something new. Something that makes more sense, or no sense, or less sensethan it did seconds before. It’s like the truth has become this fluid, feckless thing I can’t quite get a grip on.
I laugh out loud, a soft, pitiful chuckle, and say, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do have a funny way of remembering things.”
I’m resigned, disappointed, but not surprised I’ve taken up talking to Romeo when he’s not here on top of everything else. Seems like a pretty accurate reflection of where my mental state is at right now.
My mind has devolved into a cesspit of obsession, overthinking, and overanalyzing every tiny interaction between Romeo and me. Long-forgotten memories have resurfaced and mingled with new ones. The past and the present are no longer two separate things. The more I’ve thought about Romeo, the more the truth has marred and blurred, changing until I’m not sure what really happened and what I imagined.
At this point, only one thing remains certain: if I let myself get tangled up with Romeo again, I won’t recover. If he’s simply decided he misses dick, I’m the wrong guy for the job. I don’t mean that lightly, and I’m not trying to be dramatic about it. I’m stating a fact. I cannot be the one to help him with that.
I didn’t just dread his wedding. I feared it. I feared that day more than I’ve ever feared anything. In the monthsleading up to it, I lived the type of terror that made my hands and feet feel cold and my legs heavy. I was sure it would be the worst thing that would ever happen to me. The lowest point of my life.
I was wrong though. It was far from the worst day of my life. I didn’t know it at the time. I thought there was no way anything could ever get worse or that I could possibly feel deeper despair.
I thought that once a heart broke, it was broken. Done.
I now know that’s not the case. For me, at least, my heart didn’t break once. That would’ve been bad, but it would have been okay. It would have been survivable. Instead, it broke over and over, every day, every month, every year. Scar tissue ripped and my heart cracked and broke down the middle. Turns out, the pain I thought would kill me in that motel room after Romeo’s wedding was only a taste. A morsel. A little tidbit of what was to come.
Years of tears.
Devastation with no earthly limits.
So, no. No, I don’t have it in me to fuck around and find out what it’s like to have Romeo in my arms and lose him all over again.
I don’t need to.
I know I won’t survive it.
No.
What I need to do is keep my shit together and get out of here as soon as possible.
Ian, the site manager, has sworn black and blue he’ll have the family bathroom in a semi-livable state by the end of the day tomorrow. Either way, I’m moving out of Romeo’s house with or without running water.
It’s obviously the sensible thing to do. The right thing.
And the next right thing will be for me to call Lexi and ask her to come and get me. That’s what I should do. Yes. I should call her. I should call her right now before I lose my nerve. I should just tell her what’s happened and ask her to come and get me.
The doorbell rings. The unexpected, piercing sound sends a jolt through me.
I groan loudly and drag myself up the stairs. It must be fucking Ian. He probably forgot something. Why can’t he just fucking wait until he gets back tomorrow? That’s what I want to know. What’s so fucking important that you have to disturb the peace of a man who hasn’t known a moment’s peace in years and now, through every fault of his own, knows even less? For fuck’s sake, Ian. What’s the matter with you?
I plaster a broad, lippy smile on my face and swing the door open.
It’s not Ian.
It’s Romeo.
My entire spine contracts, forcing me to draw such a sharp breath that there’s an audible hiss as air fills my lungs.
Romeo is standing on the threshold. He’s wearing dark jeans and a faded gray T-shirt that clings to his chest. He has both hands in his pockets, shoulders raised slightly as though he’s bracing against bad weather. He isn’t. The weather is fine. The only thing bad here is the thing between us. He dips his head down and then looks up at me through a forest of lashes.
The air crackles.
My hand is on the door, holding it wide open, and I don’t appear to be moving. I read his face for a sign, a clue, anything that will tell me what the fuck’s going on.
