Page 92 of Blitz

Because I can’t give him what he needs. Because I’m broken.

“He’s an asshole,” Fred says.

“Fuck him,” Melissa adds.

I cling to Micah’s shoulder. My brother holds me, rocking slowly from side to side.

“It’s okay, sunshine,” he says again. “Let it all out.”

Mark brings me a fresh beer. Bryce brings me two shots of tequila.

I don’t know how we get past this sex thing. I want to have sex with Tucker. I do. It’s just that sometimes the enormity of our situation hits me like a brick wall, and I don’t know how to cope with that weight. We’re too young to be this serious.

This is the time in our lives we’re supposed to go out and meet new people. Experiment. Kick back with our friends and have a good time.

Except that as much as I want to spend time with my friends, I want to spend time with him more. He’s the last person I want to see when I go to sleep every night and the first person I want to see every morning, even before I’ve had my coffee. He’s the only person I want to have crazy, dirty sex with. Or crazy, emotional sex. Or any kind of sex.

He’s it.

I sob harder and cling to my brother. He holds me tight.

“He’s a jerk,” he tells me. “You deserve better than him.”

“I love him,” I say through my tears. “I only want to be with him.”

“He’ll come around,” Melissa says.

He won’t. I know Tucker. He’s stubborn to a fault. I hurt him. Again. My unwillingness to play by his very fair rules cuts him deeper than I realized. He’s not going to take that lying down. He’s not going to welcome me back with arms wide open a second time.

He’s going to retreat and lick his wounds. Maybe this time he’ll actually get over me. Maybe this time he’ll actually move on.

Micah is my rock, my other half, but Tucker has my heart. For better or for worse, all I want is Tucker. And I pushed him away. I wouldn’t talk to him—couldn’t talk to him. I let my past, our past, blind me to the realities of our present.

And the reality is, we weren’t perfect. We had real struggles. He wanted to work through them, and I clammed up.

I don’t know how to talk about these things. With him, with my friends, with other people. I’m not a prude. I’ve slept around. I’ve been with other people. Some of those experiences have been good, and others have been rather lackluster. That doesn’t make them bad: it just means they weren’t great.

He’s never really put himself out there. We started dating so young. He’s only ever been with one other woman, and by all accounts, it was less than satisfying for him. He doesn’t know that sometimes you have to kiss some toads to find your prince.

I found him, and he’s a King. He’s the one for me.

Except that he doesn’t want to do the same things I want to do. He doesn’t like hanging out with my friends. He doesn’t like going to parties. He seems to have an issue with my drinking and having a good time. I don’t get it. He wasn’t nearly this repressed and uptight in high school.

Maybe we’re just too young. I don’t want to pretend that he’s going to wait around for me; I know better than to think lightning will strike twice. This is the end of the road for him and me. And I just have to be okay with it, because there is no way I’m going to be able to change his mind and convince him to take me back.

I don’t have some secret trauma I’ve been hiding from him. I don’t have any deep, dark secrets. I’m not a prude. It’s just that sometimes after sex I get overwhelmed and need some time to process. And when I’m sleeping with real people, they tend to want to do things like cuddle and indulge in an afterglow together. Vibrators don’t have expectations. Vibrators don’t ask more of me than I’m able to give.

Maybe he’s right that I was using him. Maybe he’s right that I was treating him like a dildo, like a dick on command.

But I like the person that dick is attached to. I like the human as much as I like the cock. I liked having sex with him, partly for the equipment, partly for the person operating it. He has a pretty penis, and he knows how to use it to make me feel good. We have a chemistry that goes beyond just the physical, a bond that’s deeper than attraction.

He loves me.

Tucker accepted me, all of me, even the parts of me he didn’t like. He didn’t try to change me. Not once did he suggest I not have another drink or that I stay in. He didn’t try to convince me that spending time with my friends was a bad idea. No, he made his displeasure known in other ways: judgmental glances when I filled my cup, folding in on himself in a crowd of people, withdrawing when people tried to befriend him.

It’s the way he copes, a tiny voice in the back of my head says. It sounds like him. He’s never been crazy about big crowds of people. He showed up: he came to parties with me, parties where he knew nobody, and if he stuck close to my side, at least he was there. He didn’t try to manipulate me into leaving early. He didn’t try to monopolize my attention. He wasn’t controlling like my ex or manipulative like other guys I’ve hooked up with. He showed up. He put the effort in.

And I refused to talk to him. I couldn’t verbalize my issues. I still don’t think I can.