“It’s over, Lance. It was good while it lasted, but…” She licks her bottom lip, pausing while she tries to find the right words, but then just repeats herself. “It’s over.”

“Over? What the hell are you talking about?” I reach for her again, pulling her into the kitchen and slamming the fucking door behind us, making sure that we’re out of my father’s earshot. We can’t be over! What is this fucking nonsense?

Looking at me, Jocelyn manages a faded smile. “We’re over. It’s time to put an end to it. I know you can’t, so I’m doing it for you.”

I stand there like a fucking asshole, looking at her with an expression of pure disbelief on my face. Why is she saying all these fucking things? This doesn’t seem like her.

“Why?” I ask her, the sound of my fucking voice sounding foreign to my own ears. This can’t be fucking happening. She opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it again, almost as if she doesn’t know what to say. Running one hand through her hair, she bites down on her lower lip, and I see her eyes starting to water. I try and reach for her, but she turns her back to me, looking out the window. I don’t even know what to fucking say, so I just wait for her to regain her composure.

“Just go, Lance. You wanted to leave, didn’t you? To go to Europe? So go. There’s nothing holding you here.” She couldn’t be any more fucking wrong about that. How can she even say this when she was the one that asked me to stay?

“I can’t leave. You know that… I can’t leave you,” I say, my heart racing, and this time it isn’t a pleasant fucking feeling. There’s fear in my bones, fear of what’s happening right now. Fear of losing the best fucking thing that has ever happened to me.

“Not anymore, Lance. Just face it: this was fun, but it’s time we both face the real world. You’re just a kid, and I’m your stepmother. What did you think would happen?”

I take one step toward her, and grabbing her arm, make her turn to me. There are fucking tears streaming down her face, and I brush the back of my hand over her wet cheek. Just seeing her cry makes my heart fucking tighten up, rage coursing through me. I just want to punch whomever or whatever is making her feel like this, and the worst fucking part is that I don’t even know where to direct my rage.

“Do you want to know what I think? I think that I love you. I think that I want to be right here, close to you.” She shuts her eyes, and I feel her close to the breaking point. Somehow, she manages to hold her own, even though she’s on the verge of sobbing. I pull her into me, putting my arms around her and holding her tight, my hand on the back of her head. We remain like that for a whole m

inute, standing in silence as I hear her heart steadily beating against my chest. “It’ll be okay,” I whisper, not knowing if I believe my own fucking words. “Whatever it is, it’ll be okay… I love you, that’s all that matters.”

She remains in silence, but then two heartbeats after my words, she pushes me away. Brushing away her tears, she looks me in the eyes, an icy kind of determination there. I feel as if the whole world is crashing around me and I can’t do a fucking thing about it. I’m fucking powerless.

“But I… But I don’t love you. I never did,” she says, the words cutting through me like a fucking knife. My heart tightens inside my chest, and I feel my blood turning into ice. It can’t be true… It’s just not fucking possible. She loves me, I know it.

“You’re lying… Why are you saying these things?” I ask her, feeling as if someone was trying to pull the ground from under my feet. This can’t be fucking happening.

“Lying? You’re just a kid, Lance. I never loved you,” she repeats, the words hitting me like a brick again. If someone ran over me with a fucking tank and then shot me in the chest I wouldn’t feel half as bad as I do right now. “You’re nice to look at, and you sure know what you’re doing between the sheets… But that’s all there is to it. What do you think I was going to do? Throw away a stable life because of a fling with a kid?”

I stand there, my feet fucking glued to the floor as I take in her words. I’m listening, but I do not comprehend any of it. Why the fuck is she saying all this? And why the fuck is it getting so hard to breathe?

“Then… why did you pretend? Why did you fake it all this time?”

“I never thought you’d actually believe all that. It was just… a fling. Something to keep myself busy. A fantasy. Nothing less, nothing more. And now, it’s time for it to be over.”

With that, she walks past me, hitting me with her shoulder. I don’t turn as she leaves the kitchen, not even bothering to close the door. I remain there for what seems like forever, not knowing what to do. Everything was going so great… And now this.

I think of going after her, but to what fucking end? She seems hell bent on crushing what we had, and I can’t force her to fucking love me.

I take two steps toward the counter and uncap one of the whisky bottles my father keeps around. Reaching for a glass, I pour myself a hefty dose, downing it in one single gulp. Then I pour myself another, giving it the same fucking treatment. It doesn’t take long for the alcohol to rage through my veins, a soothing sensation taking over me.

What the fuck do I do now? I was a fucking idiot! What the fuck was I thinking? She’s right… Whatever we had between us, it was doomed right from the fucking start. She’s my stepmother, for fuck’s sake! Did I expect my fucking father to give us his blessing? Did I expect the whole world to fucking applaud as we broke all sorts of taboos? How could I be so fucking naive?

But then I remember the first time I saw her, every curve in her body calling to me, her beautiful face like a fucking mirage… Maybe it was wrong, but it was fucking bound to happen.

I leave the kitchen and head to my room, walking up the stairs as if I was in a fucking daze. There, I close the door and sit on the edge of the bed, my eyes wandering to the corner of the room: the suitcase I thought of taking with me to Europe is still there, staring back at me as if it were fucking mocking me.

Maybe she’s right… Maybe I should just fucking pack up, leave, and put everything that happened behind my back. London, Paris, Berlin—all cities brimming with beautiful women… I can go anywhere I fucking want.

But it’s not that fucking simple and, deep down, I know it. I can’t wipe my memory clean and go on about my life as if she had never crossed my life. Because she did. She fucking did...

And now that’s she gone, I’m fucking lost.

53

New York Daily Journal

From the Desk of Amanda Adams, the Professional Gossiper of Page Two.

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