—
I jerk awake, disappointment striking me like a damn lightning bolt.
I groan quietly, squeezing my legs together, turning in bed. Oh, god, that was so mean. Why?
Worse than the frustration is the guilt that hits me next, when I look at Vince asleep next to me. In our bed that we share, because we live together; I’m a monster.
I’m so tempted to wake him up and make him fuck me, just to sate the desire that stupid dream has stirred, but it’s too fucked up. So I lie here awake, aching and miserable, frustrated beyond all reason, wanting the man I can’t have.
The man who wants me, apparently.
God, life isn’t fair. Why can’t anything with Mateo ever be easy? Or at least not traumatizing? I would take just slightly less life-ruining. But no. It even hurts when he’s nice. Everything has to be completely impossible with him.
Though it would’ve been significantly nicer if he’d have bothered explaining what it means that he wants me. Nothing? Everything? Does that change anything, or did he just decide to throw a bone at my unrequited love for him? Just enough to keep me on his hook, since I have been avoiding being alone with him lately?
I have no idea.
And it’s Sunday. I have to go over there with Vince tonight and have dinner at the table with Meg and Mateo. Not to mention Vince, who is so completely pissed off at me right now that I’m honestly shocked he doesn’t explode with the pent up rage. It wasn’t bad enough that I danced with Mateo, or that I pined while he danced with Meg. After that, after Mark comforted me in the hall, he hauled me out on the dance floor. And for a little while, I rejected the reality of my Morelli life, of the unending sentence of some variation of torment, and I had fun. There was no stress. No angst. I didn’t feel torn apart. I didn’t want to cry. Nothing hurt. Everything felt okay. I felt my age.
I feel like being a Morelli has aged me dramatically. And I’m not even a real Morelli. I’m not even as much one as Meg, because she wears Mateo’s ring.
That at least cools the fires of my sexual frustration. Boy, is it not sexy to think about your best friend wearing the ring of the man who starred in your sex dream.
This is gonna suck.
Since sleeping is a lost cause, I get a head start on the day. My GPA benefits from my lack of sleep and I do some extra studying for an exam I have coming up this week, going over review questions I didn’t think I’d have time for since I was busy helping with Francesca’s wedding. After that, I make us some breakfast. My stomach is still feeling a little icky, but it’s probably just the ulcer I’m inevitably developing by living my life.
Vince emerges from the bedroom while I’m cooking. I take a moment to admire how cute he looks, all sleepy and shirtless, not yet remembering how much he hates me.
I should’ve woke him up and made him fuck me. Since he’s furious with me, he would’ve been rough. I could’ve pretended he was Mateo.
That’s so fucked up. I shake my head at my own depravity, then turn my attention back to the eggs.
We don’t speak. I sort of hope he will. Maybe he hopes I will. But in this, like so many other things, neither of us bends.
Since he wants coffee and I didn’t make any, he joins me at the counter to make some.
I finally do speak, glancing at his hands as they measure out the coffee grounds. “I would’ve made some.”
“I’m capable of doing it myself,” he states.
I nod, turning the burner off. “Well, the eggs are done.”
“Thank you for making breakfast.”
It’s reassuring that he’s still thanking me. Last night was so awful. I swear, I expected him to leave me today. That he’s thanking me for making breakfast makes me think he won’t.
“Of course,” I murmur, reaching over him to grab us some plates.
We fall quiet again. He gets some food and heads to the breakfast bar. I remain at the counter, keeping an eye on the coffee. I’ll at least pour him some once it finishes brewing since I didn’t think to make any. Last night being so bad, I’d like to do something nice for him.
We’re about halfway through breakfast when my cell phone rings. Dread becomes me when I see it’s Meg’s cell phone.
Then the guilt hits me, because I shouldn’t dread hearing from my best friend. But Vince is right, I’m a shitty friend. Such a shitty friend.
I don’t answer. Vince notices and lifts an eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything.
A text flashes across the screen a moment later. Vince peers over to read it before I can even reach for it. He snorts.