Page 77 of Bend

That’s the bit that fucking sticks.

Not just the frustration, hell not even the anger.

The hurt.

Because, yeah, sure, I’m angry and frustrated. I’m so tired of him acting like this thing between us only exists when he’s cornered hard enough to stop denying it. But under all that, there’s hurt sat right in the fucking middle of me like a stone.

Because why doesn’t he think I’m not worth it?

That’s the question I keep circling back to, no matter how much I try not to.

Why is wanting me the thing that makes him panic out of everything else in our fucking lives?

Why is it easier for him to let me in it when there’s somebody else in the middle to absorb some of the truth of it? I can’t stand that one second it’s just us, and out of nowhere he looks at what’s between us and decides it’s too much. Like it’s too real, and dangerous to touch without burning his own life down.

And sure, maybe that’s unfair.

Maybe it’s not about me, and it’s all his own fear, walls, and bullshit.

But it still feels personal when a man kisses you like that, and then treats the wanting like something he has to run from.

I drag a hand over my face and stare up at the ceiling a second longer, jaw tight.

The worst part is, I know he fucking feels it. That’s what makes all of this so maddening.

If it was one-sided, if I’d imagined the looks, the tension, the goddamn motel room, or the kiss last night in the garage, then fine.

Brutal, but simple. I’d deal with it.

But it’s not simple because I didn’t.

He feels it.

He just can’t stand himself for feeling it, and somehow that hurts worse.

Today it feels like I brought the whole bloody mess home with me.

I sit up with a curse and swing my legs off the bed.

The cabin floor’s cool under my feet. The sheet drags at my hips for half a second before I stand, grab the bottle of water off the nightstand, and down half of it in one go.

“Good fucking morning to me,” I mutter.

The fan keeps turning. Somewhere outside, a mockingbird starts up like it’s got personal beef with silence. A truck rumbles down the road out front. From the kitchen, my phone lights up where I left it charging on the counter last night.

I pad out there in boxer briefs and yesterday’s irritation, push a window open over the sink to let in some air, then grab the phone.

A couple texts.

One from Sayshen in the group chat around midnight that just says

Sayshen: Andre wants everybody in at eleven tomorrow.

And then social media notifications.

I unlock the screen and start scrolling mostly because I’m trying not to think.

Doesn’t work.