Page 95 of Lovefool

Time doesn’t plateau as expected. It rolls on an endless loop, distorting the outside world, trapping us in a high-security prison.

I stumble backwards, only for him to push forwards. The truth I’ve tried so hard to ignore weighs down my shoulders like snowdrifts. “No. That’s…”

“Oh, so now you’re going to lie to me? Lake, you’re a walking open wound.”

Never in a million years would I imagine Sutton saying these awful things to me.

I should surrender, but all I do is double down. I’m in survival mode. I’m not thinking about rebuilding bridges; I’m thinking about running away as far as I can from the problem before it catches up to me.

“Out of all the people in the world, I thought you loved me for all my parts. But you’re just like everybody else, making me feel like my baggage is too heavy to be loved—which tells me that you never loved me to begin with.”

Sutton’s body language shifts from defensive to dejected, shoulders slouched. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“That’s exactly how you meant it.”

For a split second, his fury gets trampled beneath irremediable pain. The quiver in his voice wasn’t there before, nor was the glossy shine over his eyes. The tension in his upper body deflates, and he’s no longer this large, threatening fixture standing between me and my integrity.

“You’re asking me to put my second family in jeopardy.”

“I thought I was a part of that family too,” I sob, wanting more than anything to reach out and graze his arm, to hold his hand—to remind him that we were good together before tonight.

I don’t want all of this to be over. I want to take it all back. I turned a good man into a resentful one, and that’s a process that can’t be reversed.

All this time, I desperately believed in a fairy tale that fell apart like kinetic sand in my hands. A fairy tale advertised as being simultaneously obtainable and unbreakable. I should’ve known that love, like every other romantic feeling in this world, was just some concept made up by society to sweeten the dull, metallic taste of life.

A frown slides over Sutton’s lips, and he injects some space between us—for his sake or mine, I’m not sure. “You are!”

“It sure doesn’t feel like it.”

I jerk sideways to begin walking toward the door—not sure where I’ll go, but anywhere is better than here—before my trek is obstructed by Sutton’s broad frame. Trying to outmaneuver him seems fruitless.

I force myself to look up at him, my vision bleary, tears cooling on my scalding cheeks as regret climbs up the rungs of my spine.

The din of noise around me stills. No concerning humming coming from the invisible pipes, no muffled noises from our neighbors seeping through the walls, no nocturnal orchestra coming from the unseen creatures in the purlieu that cocoons this hotel.

I nearly trip over my feet when I slip past him and careen toward the door, my mind already sinking beneath waves of overstimulation. I realize that running is cowardly, but that’s what I’m best at, right? Abandoning my responsibilities when things get hard.

“I-I should go. I can’t be here right now,” I tell him, scrambling for the door handle, not even bothering to look back at the aftermath of my destruction.

His voice trails after me—heartache braided into each word—and I can sense that he’s hot on my tail with the way his figure displaces the muggy air behind me. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave me.”

I slam the door shut before he can grab my arm or pull me into his chest. And then I run. Directionless. Mindless. I sprint and don’t look back, not even when the tears begin their merciless reign yet again, determined to bring me to my knees.

A broken heart doesn’t have an immediate fix button. If it did, far more couples would still be together. Love endures until each party decides to make amends with one another, and deep down, I have to have faith that Sutton’s and my love will linger even long after we’re gone.

For now, I just need it to linger for the night.

30

LET THESE VIOLENT DELIGHTS HAVE GENTLE ENDS

LAKE

No matter how far I run, the walls still feel like they’re pressing in.

Realistically, I only get a few blocks before I slump against a streetlight on the corner of a vacant road. I stare up at the funeral procession of storm clouds rolling over my head, taunting me with the promise of rain, and the seam between dusk and dawn is a dark one—now devoid of stars with the changing of the weather. I can’t see the moon anymore. My only source of light is the low-powered, cobweb-laced bulbs that flicker ominously in the dead of night.

I don’t want the Mustangs to pay for one idiot’s mistake, and I don’t want to start a conflict with the people I care about. On the other hand, though, if I let this go, a little voice will always be in the back of my head asking me if it was the right decision.