Listen, I just want a date to the parties, I don’t need you to act like I’m your possession, okay?
Would you get a dragonfly tattoo instead?
Die. Slowly.
Already ordered the necklace by the way.
Something about his last text makes me see red.
Like I don’t have a say in anything, at all.
Like he’s the one in control again, even though this whole fake relationship wasmyidea.
I text him again.
You know what? Forget it.
I lock my phone, turn it on silent, and shove it back in my pocket. I’m clenching my teeth hard as I follow Hunter down Red Row, and a silent volcano is erupting inside me.
“You’re right,” I tell Hunter.
“Hm?”
“I’m going to call it off.”
Hunter turns in the wind and squints at me. “Oliver, are you okay?”
I try to hide the anger inside me, but with every step closer we get to Onyx House, I want to explode.
“I think I am finally okay. For the first time in two weeks. Because I’m finally realizing how fucking idiotic it was to do this with Niko at all. Going to tell him the fake relationship shit is off when we get back.”
“Wow,” Hunter says. “Okay. Proud of you.”
I let out a frustrated sigh, leaning my head back in the wind. “But I know he’s going to try to work his way back under my skin. I have to figure out exactly what I’m going to say. Make him realize it’s really not going to happen.”
“Whenever Rayne can’t figure out what to say, he writes it out. You could try that.”
“Your boyfriend’s a lot better at social stuff than I am.”
“All the more reason you should write it in a letter. It helps you collect your thoughts. Makes it harder for the other person to convince you you’re wrong, too.”
Hunter’s right.
I am a fan of journals, after all, and writing helps me parse my thoughts.
I can write it all out, every stupid reason why this was a bad idea, and make sense of my emotions in the form of a goddamn letter.
As soon as we’re back in Onyx House, I head to the Reading Room. It’s a room on the bottom level that we use to study, and it’s one of the only reliably calm places in the frat house. I find a pen and a sheet of paper in one of the old wooden desks.
I sit down at the desk, and I write.
I’m there for at least half an hour, starting the letter, hating it, then walking over to the fireplace to burn it and start over again.
Finally, I settle on one clear, concise message.
And then it’s done.
I fold it in half and walk up the stairs toward my room.
