His eyes widen, and he shakes his head. Getting to his feet, he takes a hesitant step closer to me. “I’ve never been anything but honest with you. And I don’t always pretend.”
“You do!” I cry. “You do it with everyone. The girls who come up to you on campus, and the guys who act like assholes.” Mason’s face flashes through my mind again, but I can’t bring myself to call him out specifically. “You pretend that everything’s fine, even though I know you wish our relationship was different.”
Wes slowly shakes his head. “Ivy, I don’t.”
“You do,” I snap, my words coming from that deep, dark place I spend most of my time lately. “This is your last semester of college. Just admit that you’d rather be enjoying your senior year with one of the million girls in your phone instead of somefucked up freshman. We’re not together. Nothing’s stopping you.”
Hurt flashes across his face. “Really, Ivy? We’re not together?”
“No.”
“If we’re not together, then why do we spend all our time together? Why did I introduce you to my friends and my parents? Why did I invite you on my vacation?”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have,” I spit out.
I glimpse the pain in his eyes before they shutter. His face goes blank. Expressionless. “Oh. Okay. Maybe I shouldn’t have.”
My chest pangs, and I release a slow sigh. I feel foggy-headed. Disoriented by my misplaced emotions. I can’t quite get a grip on right and wrong. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“I don’t give a fuck if we’re having sex or not. I told you that.”
My anger flares again, out of control. “Well, good. I’m glad you don’t give a fuck.”
He shakes his head at my intentional belligerence. I’m aware that I’m being a brat, but I can’t seem to stop myself…not when the person I’m really mad at, the person I actually loathe, is myself. “Ivy, come on,” he says. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
“Sure, it’s not.”
He runs a hand through his hair, and I know he’s exasperated. I know he’s stressed by my accusations and confused by my behavior, at a loss for what to say. I don’t blame him. Any sane person would be.
He drops his hand and shakes his head at me. “One minute you’re all over me, the next you’re pulling away. I’ve told you so many times that I’m not trying to pressure you. I’ve told you how much you mean to me. I don’t know how much more convincing I can be. Have I not done enough to prove that to you?”
I hesitate because this is it. This is my last opportunity to walk it back. To find understanding. To tell him what’s actually bothering me and potentially destroy our relationship a different way. Because it’s not about sex. It’s not about his accusation that I’m giving mixed signals. He’s right about that. I’ve given enough mixed signals to stop traffic.
In reality, this is abouthim.
It’s always abouthim.
I’m drowning in the memory ofhim,and I can’t—I can’t—I can’t find the surface anymore. So I let it beat me, break me, and drag me under until hope is lost.
This is your last chance to tell him the truth.
It is, but when I open my mouth, “You haven’t done enough,” comes out instead.
I throw the words at him, sharp enough to kill, and watch as they hit their mark. I watch our bubble burst. I watch our world shatter because we both know that Wes has been an angel, a godsend, a guiding light. We both know how much he cares for me, how he’s proven it over and over, and that there’s no going back after this. He’s given all he’s capable of, stood before me time and time again with his heart on his sleeve and his intentions laid bare, and maybe in an alternate reality his devotion would heal me completely.
But not in this one.
The look on his face will haunt me forever. I’ve never seen him so hurt. So…broken.
It destroys me inside, but I deserve it.
“Fuck. I’m trying. I’m…” He trails off. His throat bobs as he swallows, his eyes turning glassy. “Maybe it’s not…”
“Not what?” I breathe, knowing the answer but dreading it anyway.
He swallows again. Seems to hold his breath for a moment before exhaling the words, “Not meant to be.”
Not meant to be.
