I clear my throat and smother the thought away immediately, snuffing out any possible ember before it has the chance to become a flame. I’ve learned what fire can do. How it burns through you, leaving you hollow and blackened. I want nothing to do with it. So, I bury the spark under ice and ash, force my face into indifference, and remind myself that warmth is dangerous. Warmth is a lie.
“Look, I don’t know what you want from me.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, metal scraping along glass.
Her smile falls, and for a second, guilt flashes through me, hot and unwelcome. I almost feel bad for my sudden change in reaction, but not enough to pull back. Not enough to let her think there’s any kind of hope when it comes to me.
“Nothing, I was just—”
“Just what?” I snap.
She pauses for a moment, and her mouth parts slightly. Her eyes bounce between mine as she tries to read me. I avert my gaze, not wanting her to see any part of me—the pain I’m carrying or the guilt that’s settling in my gut.
“Listen, I don’t need your help so don’t worry aboutsaving my assagain. I’m good.” She doesn’t respond, but disappointment flickers across her face. I can sense a form of hurt I’ve inflicted radiating off her. I hold my guard up like a shield before that falls, too. My stomach rolls uncomfortably. “I gotta go, so…”
“Yeah, okay.” She adjusts her bag on her shoulder. Her voice is small suddenly, as if she’s trying to fold herself up before she disappears. “See you around.”
She turns and walks away, and I watch her for a few seconds longer than I should, feeling like a complete dick. The ache that hits my chest is different from the hollowness I’ve grown used to these last few months. I’m not used to being the bad guy.
But it’s better this way, I tell myself as I turn my back and walk away.
It’s better to pretend I’m cold and stonewall anyone who comes my way. Because the alternative of letting someone in and risking even the smallest piece of myself? That’s just not an option. Not after what I’ve already lost. Not after what it’s done to me.
Something happens to you when your heart’s been crushed. It’s not just pain and loss. It’s embarrassment. It’s shame. It’s a rewiring without knowing where the wires are supposed to go. It’s devastating and it makes love, even friendship, stop looking like possibility and start looking like a loaded gun.
People think heartbreak makes you stronger, wiser, or virtuous in some poetic, tragic way. But the truth is it just makes you colder. Rougher around the edges. It strips the softness right out of you and replaces it with something ugly. And once you’ve lived inside that kind of ruin, once you’ve seen how easily everything you care about can collapse, you don’t gamble with it again.
So, yeah, maybe I’m the asshole now. Maybe I just sent a nice girl away when a different version of me would’ve wanted to get to know her, wanted to make her smile. But that person is dead. The man left standing doesn’t care to remember him. He doesn’t risk. He doesn’t love. He just survives.
Even if survival feels a hell of a lot like rotting from the inside out.
Track 3
“Stardust” Nat King Cole, 1957
JAKE
THE NEXT TWO days moved in the same timeless blur all the others have since May.
I slept most of the first day, then worked until nearly 4 a.m. Last night, I stayed late to help break up a bar fight that left me with a split knuckle. I’m not supposed to throw punches while I’m at work, but the prick I was holding nicked my jaw with a jab and I couldn’t help what came next. In hindsight, it definitely wasn’t a good idea.
At that moment, though, I needed it. The adrenaline spike that made every molecule of my being zing with life was worth the release. It was worth feeling alive for those few seconds, even if my hand is still throbbing.
Most of the sleep I got both nights felt like a cousin of death, like sinking into a void where nothing could touch me. I had noideas. No thoughts. I simply ceased to exist. But of what I did dream, wintery gray-blue eyes and sun-kissed skin haunted me.
They kept finding me in the darkness of my mind. Sometimes sharp and cutting, other times soft enough to grant me mercy. Those pouty, full lips would split into a smile, only to fall into a frown when they realized I couldn’t speak—because I didn’t have a tongue. I’d woken in a cold sweat with my heart pounding as if I’d actually been staring into those eyes all that time.
I tried to shake it off, but nothing helped. Each night, she was there—a beautiful stranger in the back of my head. And I knew she would stay. Because unfortunately for me, I’m not good at being an asshole.
This morning, my exhaustion is twisting into something else, something restless. Like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff. It’s unnerving and makes my skin crawl.
I’m half asleep when I get to Stanley’s class, and even more agitated with the day than usual. I’m on edge. Uncomfortable in my own skin. To make matters worse, Feeny Number Two is breaking the class into partners.
“Your business plan will be due at the end of the semester. The assignment will revolve around creating a model, designing the infrastructure, and showing projections of your business’s success. I have no preference for business types, but I have very specific expectations of what the models should look like.” He straightens a stack of papers on the desk before him. “Partners were assigned at the beginning of the semester. Check the class page for who you’re to work with. You have,” he peers down through wiry glasses at his leather-strapped watch, “the last five minutes of class to find your assigned partner and exchange information. Good luck.”
I don’t bother checking the class page. My one-on-one with Stanley before this class began solidified that I wouldn't be working with a partner on assignments. And seeing as I already took this damn class last semester, I’m sure I’ll do just fine without one.
“Um, Mr. Stanley?”
I recognize her voice but don’t dare turn her way. I don’t need any more images to shake from my psyche where she’s concerned.
