In fact, bad doesn’t even begin to describe everything she’s done to me since I met her.
The only reasonable thing to do now is the thing I should have done nine years ago, when Lia Cabello walked into class late in the very beginning of first grade.
The teacher had assigned her the seat across the aisle from me, and I’d leaned over to introduce myself.
“Hey,” I’d grinned. “I’m Logan.”
She’d turned her blue-green eyes toward me, batted her long black lashes, stretched her lips into a sweet smile, and whispered, “I don’t care.”
Letting her go feels just as impossible as tearing off a limb. And yet, what choice do you have, when that limb is gangrened?
I can’t let her infect me anymore. I just can’t.
And so, huffing out a deep sigh, I mutter, “Okay. I’m moving on.”
7
Lia
Sixteen years old
Stupid,stupid, stupid, stupid.
Each word punctuates another spasm, and I hunch over on the bed, my skin slick with perspiration from the pain of pushing out my demon creation.
I’ve had a whole lot of time to regret everything that has led to this moment.
The short leather skirt and fishnet stockings I’d worn just to taunt Logan. The lies about all the guys I’d fucked, just to taunt Logan. Walking over to that bar, and heading inside, just to taunt Logan.
Calling him a loser in front of the whole cafeteria, and drawing Damien’s ire. Calling him a loser, period.
Every one of the heartless insults I’d made a habit of using on him since the day I met him in first grade.
I’ve never understood why I felt compelled to treat him so horribly. After a while, I stopped trying to understand it. Therewas something addictive about feeling power over someone who could easily have crushed me, if he had wanted to. There was something desperate in the way I used cruelty to hide all the insecurities, the loneliness, the need that bubbled to the surface every time I laid eyes on him.
I guess the saying is true. You don’t know how good you’ve got it until it’s over.
Because on the morning that I needed Logan more than I’d ever needed anyone in my entire life—he was absent from school.
I’d spent that entire night with my lower body sore and bleeding, picturing just what I’d do when I saw him the next day. How I’d fall to his feet and beg for forgiveness. How I would accept that ticket, and go to that dance, and thank him, too.
Pride is a word that lost its meaning that night. In its place appeared two new ones.If only.
And I’ve been repeating those words ever since.
If only I hadn’t gone to the bar that night.
If only I hadn’t smiled at Carmelo Moretti.
If only I hadn’t let him buy me a drink.
If only I hadn’t drunk it.
If only I’d remembered how to throw a punch before he’d forced himself on me.
If only I hadn’t told those five guys to beat the shit out of the only boy who could have protected me.
Too late. Too fucking late.
