A heavy sigh leaves him, and I’m shocked that he’s got the audacity to actually be frustrated withme.
“Can we just… talk about this in the morning? Please?”
I ignore him. “How the hell did you even get home? Please tell me you didn’t drive like this.”
“I didn’t,” he says, blowing out a frustrated breath. “Dane drove me.”
He pulls the cover over his chest like that’s the end of it, and I snatch the blanket off him completely, balling it up, and then toss it to the floor.
No way in hell he’s about to get comfortable inourbed completely fucking wasted.
“What the fuck?” he grumbles, but his words don’t sting like they did earlier, because I’m too angry to care how he feels right now.
He takes a deep breath, and I can’t even form words as I stare at him, confused when he turns to face me. He looks into my eyes, and I feel sick to my stomach as I stare back into his—red, glassy, distant.
Familiar.
A flashback of my dad stumbling through the door in a similar state has my fist tightening at my side.
To my horror, West reaches for me, placing his hand on my hip, pulling me closer.
“Listen, I did some thinking,” he says, not slurring, but his words drag just a little. “You keep saying we need therapy to fix us, but you know what I think the problem is? You just need to chill… the fuck… out.”
He chuckles, and I stare at him, holding my tongue, trying not to spiral and cry and scream.
His fingers slink lower, until they’re lightly skimming the hem of my night shorts, creeping underneath them.
“You just need me to fuck you,” he whispers, leaning close to kiss the side of my torso where my sports bra stops.
My instinct is to put as much distance between us as possible, so I shove him away and stand to my feet. There’s this wild look in his eyes as he stares, like he’s waiting for an explanation, but I’ve got nothing else to say to him. I have no idea where I’ll go,but I know I can’t stayhere.
“Where the hell are you going?” His question lingers in the air, and I feel his eyes locked on me as I cross the room to our closet, pulling down a bag from the top shelf.
“Out,” is the only answer I give, because that was the only answer I was given when he walked out on me a few hours ago.
I swipe a tear away, then slip a shirt over my head. It doesn’t match, but I don’t care. I just have to get as far away from this house—from him—as possible.
I toss essentials into the bag, then storm into the bathroom, stuffing toiletries and hair products into the side pockets. When I go back to my side of the bed to grab my purse from the bottom drawer of the nightstand, West finally gets his bearings to climb out of bed, positioning himself between me and the door when I try to pass.
“Get… the fuck… out of my way,” I hiss, glaring at him, feeling like I’m meeting a side of him I didn’t even know existed.
There are a number of ways he could’ve hurt me tonight, but this one feels personal. He knows what life was like for me growing up, knows this was a line in the sand he shouldn’t have crossed. So, now that he’s crossed it, I can’t help but wonder if this was intentional.
Like, he didn’t know how to tell me he wants to separate, so he did the one thing he knew would push me to make that decision for him.
“Move,” I grit out, and he holds his uninjured hand out to stop me.
“Blue, please. I fucked up, but I just… today was…”
“It was hard,” I say for him. “But it wasn’t just hard for you, West. That’s what you seem to keep forgetting. We were in this together. We were a team. Which means when you hurt, that shit hurts me, too. But you’re toofuckingstupid to see what you had right in front of you.”
The rims of his nostrils flare, and I know what I’ve said that’s gotten his attention.
“Had?”
I don’t take it back. He heard me right, and I meant it.
Had.
