What she fails to see is that I’m not her enemy in this scenario. “Don’t drag the queso into this. This is about you and me, sweetheart.”
Turning back with a hand anchored to her hip, she purses her lips in anger. Her chest rises once before she roars, “I’m not your sweetheart. I’m an after-hours booty call at best. So queso or not, this,” she says, swaying her free hand between us, “isn’t going to happen.”
The disappointment that I felt when I woke up returns. It’s not caused by her rejection. It’s caused by her words. She doesn’t even believe them. I can see it in her eyes. I’ve seen Marlow riled up before and have even been at the receiving end of her wrath a few times through the years. But there’s no fire burning in her irises.
Despite the show she’s putting on, she’s not angry with me. She’s lost faith. That’s not something I can change in the heat of an argument, so I say, “You assume I’m trying to convince you to stay. I’m not.”
“Then what are you doing?” she asks, her head wobbling on her neck.
“Waiting.”
The word hits as if she never saw it coming. She didn’t. I didn’t either. I’m not usually one to pour out my emotions like some sap with nothing better to do on a Saturday night. Doesn’t matter that it’s Tuesday. My point still stands.
She huffs. “For what?”
“I’m waiting for—”
“Don’t wait on me.” And then she heads for the door again, unwilling to give me anything—peace, freedom, or even a glimmer of hope of scaling those walls she’s built.
Not ten minutes earlier, I didn’t think I had much to get off my chest. The woman brings out the best and worst in me, it seems. My worst wins, and with a boulder of a chip on my shoulder, I reply, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I won’t.”
With her back still to me, she holds the doorknob in her hand and then swings the door wide open. I almost expect more of her anger, and I’m ready for the onslaught, but it never comes. She walks out, slamming it behind her.
I won’t chase her. Not anymore. She’s said her piece, and now I know where I stand. Right where she fucking left me.
I throw the bag against the wall. “Fuck!”
8
Marlow
Things are so normal here at Rad and Tealey’s. I almost forget my world is falling apart.
Almost.
I don’t forget.
I can’t.
It’s impossible with Jackson not here. Not only has he broken tradition with his absence but my heart’s not feeling so great either after our confrontation.
Cammie’s just passed out bowls of popcorn to everyone, and by the swearing coming from the living room, Rad and Cade aren’t happy about the last touchdown. I stare out the window, mindlessly shoving the popcorn in my mouth, wondering what Jackson’s doing.
Is he still mad? He’s never been one to easily anger. He’s usually pretty laid-back in his approach to life. Not like me, who thrives off a high-strung life. My strings are so taut that he played my body like a fiddle, but a violin feels more fitting.
I’m still at a loss as to why he’s always talking about some invisible barrier around me. I feel good around him, not like I’m hiding anything, much less on guard protecting my heart. So it’s simply not true.
I let him in, as in as we agreed to be, so I’m still not seeing the problem. The problem I do see, though, is that we left things sort of in the air. Though that might be putting a positive spin on his response that he won’t wait. Was that retaliation for me saying don’t, or is that how he really feels?
Sex seems to be the purest part of our relationship. Not that we lie. No, we’re probably too honest sometimes. We just have a way of saying whatever’s on our minds. There’s no filter between us. Right now, too many feelings are involved.
I hate fighting with him.
I hate this ache in my chest.
I hate that he might be hurting as well.
I hate it if he’s not thought twice about me since I left.
I hate everything when things aren’t right with Jackson.
Sitting down in a chair across from me at the dining table, which is covered in snacks between us, Cammie stares at me.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Clearly, there’s something.” I drop my head to the side and stare right back at her, mad that she’s interrupting my wallowing. Though I also can’t help noticing her brown hair has gotten so long that the tips dip below the table when she leans forward to rest her chin in her hand. I’m tempted to ask her if she’s using a new shampoo, but honestly, I lack the energy to think about anything other than the fight I had with Jackson earlier.