“So, Adam was okay with me coming?” I don’t mean to sound so shocked, but I can’t help it, I thought he hated me.
“Yeah,” she smiles softly, “he was excited actually.”
“But you aren’t?” I snip at her, suddenly rather annoyed because Adam had no problem with it—he was willing to invite me—but she didn’t want to tell me?
I should be scared, frightened that maybe Adam will tell someone that I’m a lesbian, but I’m not, instead I’m becoming increasingly angry.
“Juliette, you wouldn’t be able to come.” Her tone is tired, maybe that’s because she’s sick or just because she’s starting to get annoyed too.
“You still should have told me. It’s like you don’t want me there.”
“Of course, I do!” She raises her voice before pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Clearly not.” I remark offhandedly.
She glares at me. “Why are you fighting with me when I’m sick?”
Suddenly I feel guilty, but it’s not enough to outweigh my annoyance. I’m not sure what I'm even annoyed about anymore. “I’m not fighting with you! I just—” I exhale, “I just don’t understand.”
“Why are you mad? Because I didn’t tell you or because you can’t come?” she asks, like she already knows the answer.
“Both,” I admit, clenching my jaw. “It would have been nice if you had at least told me.”
“Why would I tell you something that would upset you? It’s better to just not mention it.” Her casual tone suddenly sets my whole body ablaze, especially when she tries to close her eyes and massage her temples.
“Oh yeah, you’re great at that.” I scoff angrily, standing up.
“What is that supposed to mean?” She scoffs back at me like it’s a competition.
“It means that you like to avoid things.” I grit out the words.
“What have I avoided?”
“The fact that I love you!” I bellow the words out, like they’re leaving the deep hollow part of my heart or more like they’re being forced out.
“What?” she mutters breathlessly and a piece of me dies a little when she looks at me like that. So hopeless, so broken.
“You heard it that day, didn’t you?” My voice breaks a little. “Why would you pretend not to hear me?”
Am I that horrible? Have I been that torturous to be around that she can’t even acknowledge the fact that I love her? A thank you would have sufficed, even a small smile would have softened my heart.
“I told you, I can’t.” She looks away from me. “I told you I can’t be like my father. I can’t love you.”
Her father. Her father. Her father.She sounds like me and when I was in this situation, she understood me, she was kind to me and didn’t rush me in any manner. But that’s the difference between me and her, I’m not as good as she is. I never have been.
“You can’t love me or youwon’tlove me?” I spit out harshly.
Suddenly her eyes snap back to me, like she’s in pain. “I feel it. I feel it here.” She puts a hand over her chest. “It aches all the time. I want youallthe time, every day, you’re all I think about, but—”
“But you don’t love me.” I finish off for her apathetically like the words she’s saying don’t matter, like nothing matters if she doesn’t love me. But that’s not true, I can wait for as long as it takes, but I’ve never been good at biting my tongue when I’m angry.
“I can’t love you!” she shouts angrily, her eyes lighting with a fire I've never seen there before. “I don’twantto love you.”
I stumble backwards from her words, like they’ve hit me square in the face. Part of me understands that this is because of her trauma—her father—but the vulnerable part of me, the selfish part of me hates it because I put my feelings on the line. I think I’ve always loved her, but she can’t manage to love me back. I can’t help that nagging feeling in the back of my throat—she can’t fathom loving me because I’m unlovable.
Her expression morphs into concern. “Wait—”
But I don’t, I said I would wait for her but I don’t, I walk away.
