“Well, let me at least drive you,” he pleads, stepping toward me.
I turn to fully face him and hold up my hands again, making him halt in his steps. I can’t meet his eyes, so I focus on the spot beside his ear like the coward I am. “I-I can’t do this, Wes. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for wasting your time. Don’t follow me. I need…space.”
His face crumples. In real time I see it, the pain I caused, engraved into his expression. And instead of trying to make it right, instead of trying to fix the damage I did to the man who single-handedly breathed life back into my soul, I turn my back on him and hurry out of the room.
He doesn’t call after me. He doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t follow me.
Because I took a perfect thing and turned it rotten.
And I hate myself for it.
It’s notsmart to be walking home alone this time of night, but I do it anyway.
The cold slaps my face, but I deserve its brutality. The tears won’t stop. They spill down my cheeks and into my mouth, but I don’t wipe them away.
Maybe they’ll drown me.
When I make it to the apartment, I have a sore throat and a raging headache. I need to stop crying, but the harder I try, the faster the tears fall.
I tear off my shirt and chuck it across the room with as much force as I can muster, and then I stare at my chest in the mirror for too long. I half expect to find bruising on the skin overmy heart. It feels black and blue inside. Battered. But there’s nothing on the surface I can see. It’s all an illusion.
I strip off everything else and crawl into bed, where I just…collapse. My head sinks like a weight into the pillow. My limbs turn to lead. My eyes droop shut. It’s taking too much energy not to dissect what just happened. Too much energy to keep my head above water, so I don’t drown from the shame and embarrassment of it all.
You knew this would happen.
I hoped it wouldn’t. I’m heartbroken it did.
Wes’s broken face pops into my head, and I can’t stop the tears from drenching my pillow.
Did I do something?
You were too nice. Too sweet. Too perfect.
You deserve someone whole.
My phone buzzes beneath the blanket. I rifle around until I find it and squint at the bright screen.
Wes:I know you said you need space but at least let me know you made it home okay.
I don’t want to respond, but that would be too mean, and apparently, I’m drawing a line somewhere.
Me:I’m home.
The dots appear, and then he sends another text.
Wes:Goodnight, Ivy.
I debate responses in my head.
I’m sorry.
You did nothing wrong.
Don’t hate me.
You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.
I don’t deserve you.
