Page 71 of Meet Cute

I need this. I need this to work. I need to crawl at just the right time. Some trucker can save me, and I can go to the hospital, and—

“Did that make you sad?” His head tilts, planting wet kisses all over my temple. “You know… I care about you too. M-More than she does.”

“You’re jealous?”

“No,” he blatantly lies to me, “just… worried. W-Worried that you think life with them is better. She won’t stay with you forever. She won’t take care of you. She’ll stick around for what? A week? Then she goes back to her life.”

Finn’s breathing quickens.

“But you’re my whole life. I-I’m nothing without you, so…” he gulps. “Choose me. Please? Can you do that? P-Please?”

What’s really awful is how it almost works. It’s almost convincing enough for me to give up on leaving entirely. “Finn…” But I can’t do that. That’s not an option. This game or whatever we’re doing here needs to end. It needs to end before it’s too late. “Okay.”

I’ve never been a liar. But this is a lie that needs to happen. A lie that will save my life. The breathy laugh he gives is shaky, but it’s enough for me to know he believed me.

Haley’s words are on my mind in a constant repeat. She’s been searching for me. She wants me to come home. She was searching for me. Fuck, she even came all the way to this stupid, shitty town for me.

How could I not try? I have to try. Not even for myself, but for her. I’ll get to show her everything she’s missed in person. My apartment, my cat, my life. It might not have been much, but it was mine and mine alone.

Not crying is harder than it seems. I want nothing more than to melt down—to cry, kick, and scream. Finn needs to know how badly he’s ruined everything, and he needs to know how much I fucking hate him.

“Finn?” I make my voice as little and weak as possible. “I’m tired…”

“You wanna go to bed?”

“Yes, please.”

His smile is so genuine that I almost forget it’s not. “Alright. Let’s go to bed, honey.”

How could I ever think I loved him? What is love without choice? It’s pretend. It’s always been pretend, and I’m done playing a game I was never meant to win in the first place.

FIFTY-FOUR

Bedsheets rustle as Finn climbs out, and with him goes a piece of my heart. Every second moves by so agonizingly slow. Waiting, waiting, waiting… When is it too early? When is it too soon?

The fridge opens, but I don’t move. He yawns and turns on the stove, but I still can’t bring myself to move. Only when I hear the clack of an egg splitting in two do I finally roll over and off the bed.

Every move I make needs to be slow, but not too slow. If I’m too loud, it’s over. But if I take too long? Same thing. Who knows what he’ll do if he catches me? He might finally snap and make sure I can’t ever escape again.

His bedroom carpet is littered with unwashed clothes, but I force myself to trudge through until I reach the door. My legs are already hurting, I really don’t have the upper body strength for this.

My fingertips graze the grungy wood, slow motions pushing it open inch by inch by horrifying inch. If I’m too fast, it might creak or hit the wall. I can’t have him coming over to see what I’m doing. I just can’t.

Every time I pull myself forward my body feels a little weaker. All I have on my feet are fuzzy green socks, but the rest of me is even worse. Fleece pajama pants and a long sleeve shirt that I’m basically swimming in.

This plan fucking sucks. If I don’t get found in time, I’ll probably freeze to death.

But that’s a risk I’m willing to take. It’s no different than slowly dying here with Finn. Either way, I’ll die. At least one is on my own terms, like I had planned on originally.

I drag myself across the hardwood as quickly as I can, and with more effort than I’ve ever used before I put both hands on the back door’s knob. My escape comes in the form of shiny fake gold.

Hoisting myself up, my body hits the window with a thud. This is too loud. It’s all too loud. Shaky hands open it, and I fall outside into the cold winter morning. My hands scrape against the stone, and I can’t stop myself from hissing out in pain.

One, two, one, two. An internal rhythm keeps me going as I pull myself off the worn stone path up the hill in his backyard. My pajamas become soaked almost instantly, my body half submerged in fresh snow.

A teardrop rolls down my cheek, which is funny because I really didn’t want to cry. This is so pathetic, isn’t it? What would anyone think if they saw me this way? They’d probably think the worst of me.

Behind me is a warm house with someone who loves me more than love itself. Breakfast, a comfy bed, and all the attention I could ever ask for. Yet I still wasn’t satisfied. Why am I never satisfied? What could possibly be enough for someone as selfish as I am?