Fueled(book two)(148)

His fingertips are so close to my arm that it takes everything I have to not lean into his touch. Visually shunned from touching me, he shoves his hands in his pockets to ward off the early morning chill. Or perhaps mine.

I know I’m hurt and I’m confused and I hate him right now, but I still love him. I can’t deny that. I can fight it, but I can’t deny it. I love him even though he won’t let me. I love him even through the hurt he’s inflicted. The floodgates I’ve been trying to hold back burst and tears spill over and down my cheeks. I stare at him through blurred vision until I’m able to find my voice again despite the despair. “You said you’d try...” It's all I can manage to say, and even then my voice breaks with each word.

His eyes plead with mine and in them I can see the shame. For what, I can only imagine. He sighs, his shoulders sagging and his body defeated. “I am trying. I...” His words falter off as he removes his hands from his pocket and something falls out of one. The scrap of paper flickers to the ground in slow motion, the sun catching its reflective silver packaging. It takes my mind a moment to process what has landed at my feet—and not because I don’t understand, but rather because I am hoping against hope that I’m wrong. I stare at the emblazoned Trojan emblem on the torn package, synapses slow to fire.

“No, no, no—” Colton repeats in shock.

“You’re trying?” I shout at him, my voice rising as anger blazes. “When I meant try, Ace, I didn’t mean try to stick your dick in the next available candidate the first time you got scared!” I’m yelling now, not caring who hears. I can sense Colton’s rising panic—his uncertainty of how to have to actually deal with the fallout of his actions for once—and the notion that he’s never had to before…that no one else has ever called him on it, made him accountable, feeds my anger even further.

“That’s not what I―I swear that’s not from last night.”

“Quack!” I shout at him, wanting to grab him and hold him and never let him go and at the same time wanting to hit him and push him and show him how much he’s hurt me. I’m on a f*cking roller coaster, and I just want to jump off. Stop the ride. Why am I still here? Why am I even fighting for something he so obviously doesn’t want? Doesn’t deserve from me?

He runs his hands through his hair in exasperation, face pale, eyes panicked. “Rylee. Please. Let’s just take a pit stop.”

“A f*cking pit stop?” I shout at him, my voice escalating, pissed that he’s patronizing me right now. A pit stop? More like an engine rebuild. “Did you not believe in us enough?” I ask, trying to understand through the hurt. “You told me the other night that Tawny had a tenth of the sex appeal I had? Guess you chose to go slumming, huh?” I know I’m being overdramatic but my chest hurts with each breath that I take, and frankly I’m beyond caring at this point. I’m hurt—devastated—and I want him to hurt like I do. “Did you not believe enough in me that you had to run to someone else? Fuck someone else?” His silence is the only answer that I need to know the truth.

When I finally have the courage to look up and meet his eyes, I think he sees the resignation in mine, which in turn causes panic to flicker through his. He holds my gaze, emerald to amethyst, a volume of emotions passing between us―regret the biggest of all. He reaches out to wipe a tear from my cheek, and I flinch at his touch. I know that if he touches me now, I will dissolve into an incoherent mess. My chin trembles as I turn to go.

“I told you I’d hurt you,” he whispers behind me.