Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
His voice holds a note of admonishment as he says, “Don’t be stupid, Jules.”
“Fuck you,” I hiss, gripping the sofa as I lean closer to him. “I was fine before I met you.” I’m on edge, and violence brews inside of me. “How dare you!” I yell at him. I hold on to the anger. It’s the only sane part of me anymore. “How dare you start this when you knew from the very beginning—” My voice gets so tight I can’t finish.
Mason stares at me, judging how to handle me. It’s what he does, but this is too much for either of us. High and mighty with his tone, he pushes back, “You were lonely, and don’t pretend—”
“Because of you!” I scream the interruption, my voice and throat raw and full of pain. “You did this to me!” I yell. “I’m not okay, and it’s because I’m fucking you!” All of my pent-up rage, all the boiling anger spills over and I kick out, throwing the blanket off and getting away from him. There’s not enough distance between us, only feet from where he sits and where I stand. I can’t leave though, not until he lets me go. Our stares are locked, brutalized with both sadness and anger.
It’s quiet for a moment, with only the sounds of my heavy breathing and the fire.
“You need me to fix it,” Mason says with confidence.
“You can’t fix this,” I say dully and my heart hurts as I answer him. I wish he could. I so desperately wish he could fix this. Because I want him. I want to love him, and have him forever. But that isn’t our ending. I swallow and say, “You can’t fix this.”
“You need me—”
“I don’t need anyone.” I cut him off, letting out a deep breath and slowly lifting my head to look him in the eyes. The silver specks pierce through me as I say, “Mason, I’m done with all this. I’m done.” The last two words of my confession are only whispers.
His expression softens as he leans back and I take the seat on the far end of the sofa, wanting the tension to leave us both. “Do you hate me?” he asks, his eyes turning glossy but I know he won’t cry. That’s not the man Mason is. I already know he loves me. I know he wants me. I know I want him too, but that’s not in our cards. He decided that long ago, before he even met me.
“No.” My voice croaks as I answer him and that hurts so much worse, telling him and confessing. “I don’t hate you, it’s not you.”
He huffs a sarcastic and defensive sound. “It’s not you, it’s me,” he says as he slams his laptop shut and pushes it off of him.
I lick my dry lips, feeling the cracks with the tip of my tongue. “You know it’s what you’ve done, Mason.” I wait for him to look at me again and I sniffle, wiping my tears and nose with my sleeve. “It’s who you used to be that I can’t get over.
“It’s not about you, or what you want. It’s about me being okay with this, and I never will be. How can I?” I shrug, wiping the tears as they come carelessly.
“Let me hold you,” Mason says although it sounds like a demand, reaching out for me, but I move away, taking the throw with me in haste and then letting it fall to the floor.
“I can’t,” I say with my back to him. I tell him, “If you touch me, I don’t think I’ll be able to go.”
“Then don’t,” he says with desperation, but he doesn’t move.
“I can’t forget, I can’t pretend. And I hate myself for loving you.” It’s the hate I can’t live with. I turn to face him, pleading with him to understand and accept it. “I hate myself.”
I watch as Mason stands and leaves, as the first tear rolls down his cheek and he brushes it away angrily.
I can’t let him walk away like this. I reach out to him, gripping onto his arm and he stops but doesn’t look at me.
“Mason, please,” I say, begging him, but I don’t know what for. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
He shakes his head as he tells me, “It’s my fault.” That’s all he says as I stand there waiting for more. My body wars with me, wanting to cave and let him hold me. I haven’t realized it until now, but all this time, holding me has been his only way to be held in return.
“I need to give you your gun,” Mason says in a tight voice, looking past me and toward the stairs.
“You’re giving me the gun?” I ask him more as a distraction from standing there so numb and full of despair than anything else.