“Right, someone might see us,” he says, finally looking away. “People might talk.”
“Forgive me for wanting to preserve my remaining shreds of dignity,” I say, sarcastically, as I stand from the bed.
“Dignity? Is that what you wanted when you fucked me in your car last night?”
I snort.
“I just wanted an itch scratched,” I say, starting to pace at the foot of the bed. “Not a referendum on why I shouldn’t mind being the hundredth name on your list.”
“A hundred, huh? That your guess?”
Suddenly, I feel nauseous.
It’s because you haven’t eaten, I tell myself.
“I’m not guessing,” I say. “I don’t care who you fuck or how many of them there are —"
“You’re not that far off.”
The nausea rises, and I swallow it down.
“I’m not asking and I don’t care,” I say.
Now Seth stands from the bed, walks to the window. He glances behind the curtain, casually, like he’s checking the parking lot.
“You sure seem like you don’t care.”
“You’re free to fuck whoever you want. I’m not getting in the way. God forbid.”
Seth laughs. It’s a single, hard bark of a laugh, just one ha! That makes goosebumps rise on my skin.
Then he’s across the small room, standing in front of me, looking down. He’s got my chin in his hand, tilting my head up.
“You got married,” he growls.
“Don’t touch me.”
His hand drops.
“You stood on that sidewalk outside the Whiskey Barrel and said you’d never loved me to begin with, and now you’re angry that I fucked someone else?” he says, venemous and angry. “As if you didn’t fuck someone else and more?”
His blue eyes are cold, hard, flat, his dark hair wild, stuck to his forehead on one side.
The guilt stabs me like it always does, and I think: at least he stabs me from the front, while he’s looking into my eyes. At least I know when I’m being stabbed.
“And you couldn’t even do that right,” he muses.
I’m vibrating with anger, its hot spikes pricking at my throat, behind my eyes. I hold my breath so it doesn’t spill over into furious tears.
I hate that I cry when I’m angry.
“Maybe I should have fucked our entire graduating class and their cousins instead,” I say. Seth blurs in my vision. “I’ve always wanted my name to be another word for slut.”
“You like it well enough to keep me in your phone, just in case you get lonely.”
I snort, trying to sound derisive. A tear spills out of one eye, and I turn away from Seth, march to where my pants are spread on the floor.
“You haven’t turned me down yet,” I bite back. “Every time I think, surely he’ll have found someone new by now, but you never have.”
He strides to the other bed in the room, pulls his shirt from where it landed on a pillow.
“That door swings both ways.”
I button my jeans, biting my lip so hard I draw blood, but it doesn’t work. Another tear tracks down my cheek.
“Does it feel pathetic to wait around for someone who doesn’t love you back?” I say, my voice shaking.
“Love me back?” he says, incredulous, his shirt on, his jeans in one hand.
I feel like an idiot.
“I haven’t loved you in years,” he goes on. “These days you’re just a good fuck.”
I find my shirt and grab it, bra nowhere to be seen. I don’t care.
“Good,” I snarl, pulling it over my head. “I never loved you at all.”
I grab my jacket from the back of the chair where it’s lying, slam the door open, and walk out. The moment my bare feet hit cold concrete, I realize I forgot my shoes, but I can’t go back. Fuck going back.
Behind me, Seth is laughing. It’s an ugly, harsh laugh.
“Call me when your next boyfriend figures out who you really are,” he shouts. “I’m happy to fuck you without liking you.”
The door shuts. I stomp off the concrete walkway and onto the pavement of the parking lot, still cold beneath my feet, teeth gritted together, breathing ragged, eyes leaking.
At least I make it to my car before I start sobbing, the steering wheel in a two-hand death grip, nose running, mouth open. I think I’m drooling, and I don’t give a shit.
I don’t know how long I stay there. Five minutes? Five hours? I feel like an empty sack, crumpled on the floor. Like a hollow tree that’s finally fallen over. I’m just praying that Seth can’t see me through the window.
Finally, I get a hold of myself. Sort of. I get enough of a hold to sit up straight, buckle my seatbelt, fix the rearview mirror. I’m still crying, but not so much I can’t see through the windshield, so I start the car and turn the heat up and peel out of the motel parking lot with no shoes, bra, or underwear on.