Page 11 of Loverboy

I decided not to let him worry for too long, going through the motions and getting out of the shower hastily. Once I had a towel secured around my waist, I picked my phone back up and considered what to text Jasper on the way to my bedroom, this time much more careful to avoid my reflection on the way out.

“Mission accomplished. I didn’t kill myself,” I joked dryly, firing a finger gun at Oliver as I passed him in the hallway.

“Thank God,” he replied, clutching his hand dramatically over his heart as he laughed.

We were both coping.

The heartache the bedroom instilled in me was no less intense than the first time. The click of the door shutting behind me cut deep. I was so fucking alone, even with someone in the next room. Whenever I imagined starting all over again and opening up to someone new, I wanted to stab myself with a dozen knives instead. At this point, that would have been less painful.

Rage swept in behind the heartbreak. Would throwing all the furniture I shared with Sofia off the balcony be too dramatic? I’d had many more theatrical therapy sessions post-breakup with Jasper’s help in the past, such as breaking into an ex-girlfriend’s place, reclaiming all of my things, and then torching everything in our backyard. You’d think I was the unstable one, but it had been his idea.

Something was wrong with him, too.

He never made me feel crazy. Any time I voiced an intrusive thought, he didn’t so much as blink. Most of the time, I could say anything around him, and he’d accept it without judgment. The more I tested his boundaries, the less they seemed to exist. He’d follow me into chaos, and sometimes, it even seemed like he enjoyed it.

I took a second shot at figuring out what to text him back. I needed a reasonable response, one that wouldn’t make him worry too much. He was busy with school, with work, and with Mom. I could handle not sounding like a needy little bitch.

Right?

Milo: No plans. Everyone’s too busy for me.

I hit send and collapsed onto my bed, groaning into the pillow. It was the furthest thing from sounding fine. My phone buzzed to life again, and I turned my head on the now-damp pillowcase, wet curls clinging to my forehead.

Jasper: Do you need me?

God, I fucking needed him. I regretted moving into my own place with my girlfriend—ex-girlfriend—but admitting I needed Jasper was terrifying. When we were teenagers, he hadn’t carried as many responsibilities. He’d had time for me back then. We were adults now, though, and I needed to be more independent. I couldn’t afford to be a burden anymore.

Milo: I’m scared to be alone.

It wasn’t a clear yes. I couldn’t bring myself to be that direct with him. I stared at the screen, watching the little dots indicating he was typing appear and disappear. The suspense made me nauseous, and what was probably only sixty seconds felt like forever.

Jasper: Tell me what you need.

Fuck this asshole.

He was forcing me to say it. He knew what I was asking for; he always did. Why did he have to be such a goddamn prick about giving me what I needed?

Instead of giving in, I abandoned my phone on the bed. If he wanted to be difficult, I could, too. Pretending I didn’t have a phone at all, I got dressed. Gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt were good enough for sulking around the apartment, which was exactly what I planned to do for the rest of the night.

When I found Oliver in the kitchen, a single glance was all it took to know he’d be leaving. He didn’t need to tell me, not when the expression on his face served as a silent apology for the inevitable. No amount of pouting and suicidal ideation was going to make him stay another night, no matter how much he wanted to.

I could be terrible about it. I could tell him I was thinking of hurting myself again, and he’d have to stay. Any other day, I might have done just that. This time, I had to suck it up and accept the fact that I was going to be alone. I’d hurt him enough this week.

We spent an hour playing video games, eating junk food, and talking about nothing. We were terrible at most of the games, but we had a shit ton of fun every time. I managed to coax him into one more game at least five or six times before he finally put his foot down.

“I’ve got work tomorrow, and it’s my girlfriend’s birthday,” Oliver explained.

“It’s fine. I’ll play some more solo and see friends tomorrow,” I reasoned.

It wasn’t exactly a lie. I’d imagine the step-by-step of doing that from my bed, paralyzed by depression and staring at the ceiling, convinced every noise through the walls was someone planning to murder me in my sleep.

“That’s a good plan.”

“Yep.”

Oliver smothered me in an embrace, rubbing his face into my hair as he inhaled deeply.

Seriously, I didn’t really die.