He’s right—I do need to see a psychologist because imagining footage of Irvin killing someone and text messages is diabolical. I still can’t wrap my head around it. I had an appointment this morning with the school psychiatrist. Jameson told Irvin that we met, and Irvin picked out my psychiatrist for me. I could take it as him being controlling, but he doesn’t trust doctors, especially after what happened between him and Jameson’s mother. I was mad at Jameson at first, but he was concerned. The psychiatrist prescribed me a low dosage of risperidone. So far, I haven’t had any hallucinations.
Silence stretches between Irvin and me, thick as fog.
Last night, I stayed over at Snow and Lyrical’s place. I didn’t want to spend the night by myself—not in this creepy-ass mansion. It’s lonely without Irvin. Snow slept in the guest room while Lyrical and I shared a bed. We stayed up all night watching trashy reality shows and eating junk food. I needed it. Needed a minute away from my problems and from thinking about Winter’s condition. Winter’s mother informed us that if her condition doesn’t improve in a few weeks, they will pull the plug. Keanu was pissed. I don’t blame him. Winter’s parents have given up on her. There isn’t any hope left. Lyrical and I cried buckets of tears when we got the news. Life is too fragile, and I wish I could tell Winter how much I love her and miss her. You truly don’t know what you have until it’s gone.
Irvin plays a game on his phone. I tap him on the shoulder, but he doesn’t budge.
What the fuck is up with him? I tap him again. He still doesn’t move.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Why are you ignoring me?”
His eyes narrow at me, then he gets up from the bed and removes his suit, changing into his pajamas.
I wave my hand in front of his face. Irvin’s expression is blank, like a sheet of paper.
“Hello?”
He grabs his phone and continues to play a game on it. I yank him by the chin, but he peels my fingers away.
“Irvin. Are you seriously ignoring me?”
He rolls his eyes and goes back to his phone.
My heart beats fast. My pulse accelerates. Like I give a fuck if he ignores me. I keep telling myself that I’m not falling for him—I just want dick.
“Are you seriously mad because I went to my classes on campus and spent the night at Lyrical’s place?”
Silence. Complete silence. His eyes stay glued to the screen.
Fucking asshole.
“Fuck you. I don’t want you anyway. I’ll just go get dick from someone else.”
He doesn’t move. The corners of his mouth crinkle, but it’s subtle.
I throw on my sneakers and a hoodie. “I’m going right now to allow someone to fuck me the way I want them to. I don’t need your dick.”
I want to wipe that stupid-ass smirk off his face.
The way he’s not responding to my threat makes me even angrier. Why the fuck am I reacting this way? Why the fuck am I pissed he’s ignoring me? I’m a grown woman, I can go wherever I please. He shouldn’t have control over my life like this.
“Fuck you, Irvin.”
He grins, gets up from the bed, and I follow him into one of the guest rooms in the mansion.
I need his attention. I need his touch. I’ve been by myself for the last week and a half, and I want to feel wanted. I want to be held.
He lies in the guest bed, grabs the remote, and puts onAttack on Titan. I lie down next to him. He continues to watch the show, ignoring me, and the more he ignores me, the more mypanic grows. I don’t like being ignored. I can understand why he’s pissed—it’s dangerous that I disobeyed an order to keep me safe. Guards are patrolling the campus. According to Lyrical, most of the killings happen in dorm rooms and condos.
Another person was killed. Tommy was a freshman. He was found with a bullet in his head.
I fight the urge to apologize for disobeying him, but I shouldn’t. I make my own choices. I take his phone and place it on the nightstand. He looks at the ceiling, then gets up from the bed and heads to the kitchen. I follow him.
He tries to open the fridge door, but I block it. He looks down at me, then moves past me. Tears threaten to fill my eyes. I don’t have feelings for him. So why am I acting like a psycho girlfriend?
Irvin grabs a cup from the cabinet, then places his hands around my shoulders, moving me aside as he opens the fridge and pours himself a glass of orange juice. A lump forms in the back of my throat.
“I’m sorry, Irvin.”
