Never Say Forever

I’d do it all. Give her anything. But what good would it do when she won’t even look at me?

I’ve tried. I’ve begged. I’ve called. I’ve turned up at her door.

“Don’t do this, Carson,” she’d whispered. “Don’t do this to Lulu. Don’t confuse her more.”

And she was right. I’d turned into that fucking man. The weak one who operates from a place of selfishness, not selflessness. And that’s not supposed to be how love works.

What good would it do because I was fucking wrong. I should’ve told her the truth long before now. Explained the unexplainable.

Days pass, turning into night and back again. I don’t go to work. I barely function. I stay in my hotel suite, not my apartment. And think I eat, but mostly, I run. Nowhere to be and no one waiting for me, I run. And, as has become my habit, I always find myself in the same place.

Outside that fucking apartment.

The apartment I paid for, a hateful part of my brain whispers. But what choice did she have after I left her with so little? She wasn’t going to stay with me, not at that point, according to her, not anymore. She could barely fucking look at me and was running away. Just like before. Just like always. But she didn’t have to run to some flea pit hotel, and I know she wouldn’t have turned to Rose.

I stand across the street, neither dressed for the chill nor feeling it, like some sad sack just waiting for the light to come on. Just to see the silhouette of her against the window.

The way she looked at me.

The hurt and regret.

The way she shrank from my touch.

It’s nothing more than I deserve.

When I realise she’s safe, the blinds drawing closed, signalling she’s in for the night, I run again. Through the streets of Manhattan, dodging pedestrians, cars, and cabs on my way back to the hotel. Tonight, with each pound of my feet against the pavement, my rage at this injustice grows and builds, the image of what my life could’ve been playing in my head on a loop.

Kisses with a hundred meanings. A thousand reasons to hold hands. And only one motive to tell her I love her over and over again.

Because I do. Because I always will.

I see her expression, the hurt I caused. The pain.

A lifetime of moments stolen.

And this, this is what I grieve for. This is what roils through my stomach, powering my legs faster and faster until the muscles burn, until the frigid air turns my throat raw and I want to scream with the injustice of it. Because yes, this is my fault, but the cause is him.

He’s not even here and yet I hate him still.

Penance. Punishment. Penance. Punishment.

My feet pound against the pavement, making my skull thud until it’s fit to burst, on and on until I’m panting and sweating and shaking like a fucking idiot, crouched outside of my hotel.

That she can’t bear to look at me is little wonder.

I can’t stand it myself.

“Now, where the fuck have you been?”

“I thought I said I wasn’t to be disturbed.” My voice is void of inflection and I don’t bother to look up from my laptop as the door bursts open with such force, it almost collides with the wall.

Immediately, Tucker begins to laugh like I just told the funniest joke ever as Aimee begins to complain.

“Did you not hear him out there, cussing up a storm because I told him you didn’t want to see anyone?”

“And yet here he is,” I murmur, trying to absorb the information in front of me because this morning I decided I was done with letting Fee dictate the terms of this relationship breakup. I decided I respect her opinion but not her pussy-assed way of doing things. She can be disgusted, ashamed for and because of me, but she will listen to what I have to say before she decides she wants nothing more to do with me.

Which is obviously not the outcome I’m counting on.

She found out. I should have told her. But it’s right that there’s no more lies between us. And sure, love is supposed be selfless, but the way I’ve decided to look at it is if I allow her to walk away, then I’m doing her a disservice because no man will ever love her the way that I can.

Conceited? She’d better fucking believe it.

“I’m your assistant, not your guard dog,” Aimee snaps the minute before the door slams again. This time, closed.

“Why, Carson. Could it be your winning streak with women is over?” Tucker retorts with an amused glance behind him. “They normally come running into the rooms you’re in, not the other way around.”

I scan the remains of the email from Ed Martinez which finishes with the pronouncement that he’s uncomfortable spying for me. What a joke. If anyone is spying on my behalf, it would be Sophia, as it would be inappropriate for me to contact the girl directly, Ed is our intermediary. But fuck it, if spying is a wish to keep the people you love safe, then I’m the guilty one. Not them.