“I really liked you, Ten. But I wasn’t the one your mother picked. She would never pick me over Alex.”
He isn’t telling me anything I don’t know. His crush was obvious, but just like him, I had no say in the matter.
“So, you just took what you wanted, anyway.”
Trip’s quiet again.
“Yeah,” he says. “I did. I took it. And I wanted to murder every one of those motherfuckers for touching you too.”
“How chivalrous of you.”
“I know it doesn’t matter,” he says. “But it fucked me up, Ten. It fucked me up so bad. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Wondering where you were. Wondering if you were alright. I knew you weren’t dead, but they didn’t. And I always thought you’d come back for us.”
“Well, here I am. Sorry to be so predictable.”
“You want to hurt me,” he says. “I get it. And I don’t blame you.”
“Hurt implies short term suffering. I’m sorry to say that you’re wrong.”
He nods, and there isn’t even an ounce of fight in him when he looks up at me.
“I was the one who filled up the bottle that second time. The water. I just wanted you to pass out so you wouldn’t remember. But I gave you too much.”
“Water under the bridge,” I say. “I didn’t come here to rehash what you did or didn’t do. I know. I know everything. And I remember it too. I don’t need you to tell me how it went down.”
He nods.
Neither of us moves. Until he waves the needle in his hand in question.
“Do you mind? One last time.”
I don’t know him at all.
How did we become these people?
This addict who accepts death without question, his only request to have one last bump. And me, the society princess turned cold and calculating bitch sitting across from him.
I nod at him to go ahead.
I didn’t come here with a plan, really.
There was a part of me that knew Trip wouldn’t fight.
He’s always been a coward at heart. Too soft to go against what the other boys wanted. Too afraid to tell me he liked me all those years ago.
He searches for a vein in his arm with his fingers but never takes his eyes off me.
“You’re really beautiful,” he says. “Even more than I remember.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” I tell him. “All of my ugly is on the inside.”
He pushes the needle into his arm with a sigh and leans back into the couch, stretching out his legs as he stares up at the ceiling.
“I don’t believe that,” he says. “You were always too good for us.”
The needle hangs out of his arm, his words already slurring together.
“For what it’s worth. I really am sorry, Ten.”
