Highly Suspicious and Unfairly Cute(76)
Because I’m scared of everything, I’m scared of loving him, I’m scared of being hurt—
And so I hurt him instead. Is that the kind of love I have to give?
My chest burns. I messed up. I’m messed up. I took my worst fear and did it to him.
Take it back.
I run.
BRAD
After approximately ten seconds of self-righteous storming I realize I’m being a dick.
Whatever happened to friendship first? Celine never promised to want me back. In fact, she’s always said the exact opposite, but here I am throwing a hissy fit because my stupid heart is broken. Ugh, I’m that guy, aren’t I?
Still, this hurts. It hurts like there’s a hole in me. I drag my glasses off my face and swipe angrily at my cheeks. Tears feel even hotter when it’s freezing. For God’s sake, who falls in love with their best friend? Doesn’t everyone know that’s a bad idea? Especially when said best friend is still working through 27,000 issues and has goals that have nothing to do with you and—
Well, I guess everyone was right: I love Celine. I love her so much, I could throw up right now. Thank God I didn’t tell her. I would’ve told her, and then what? Did I really think I could just, what, teach her to want a relationship by sticking my tongue down her throat? How arrogant is that? Later, when I’m not literally splintering in two, I’m positive my brain will present me with a sixty-five-page annotated essay on what a douche bag I am. She didn’t want to change the rules; I did.
I put down her bag and grasp my forearms, let my fingers dig into my flesh, but it doesn’t stop all the pieces of me drifting apart. Shit. There’s a rapid crunch sound coming up behind me, like fast footsteps against the stone, and my stomach drops. I can’t talk to anyone right now.
“Brad?”
I certainly can’t talk to Celine. She looks so pretty fresh out of the shower with no makeup on, those fine folds in her eyelids like silk, the texture of her skin—
Bradley Thomas Graeme, I am begging you to get a grip right now.
I start to rush down the path, which is hardly my finest moment, but one thing I’m rarely accused of is maturity. Celine must round the corner fast enough to see me, though, because she calls my name again, and this time it sounds so…ragged, like I just ripped part of her open, like I’m hurting her exactly the way she just hurt me.
And it turns out I can’t ignore her after all.
I spin around. Fast. Too fast. Frost slides under my heel, chips of stone spray out in an ominous arc, and then the world lurches to the left. I see an angled slice of Celine’s wide eyes before the air is sucked out of my stomach and gravity wins. My right side cracks hard against frozen ground, then bounces somehow and keeps on going.
Yep. I fall right down the goddamn hill.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, my OCD whispers, Told you so.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BRAD
You know those artsy war films where they let dirt splatter across the camera and roll around a lot, so the shots make you feel dizzy? Turns out falling down a hill is a lot like that, but faster and way more painful. I land at the very bottom, kind of like a ragdoll in that my body flops around with no input from me, but also not like a rag doll at all because I have bones and they are NOT HAPPY.
“Brad!” Celine sounds very upset, so I give myself a solid two seconds to splinter into a thousand pieces of physical agony, then try lifting my head. Lucky me, it works. It also triggers a splitting headache that turns my vision white, but I’m not going to think about that because the moment I do—
Oh my God. We’re going to die. We’ve gone blind. We’re already dead. Is everything still working? ARE WE GHOSTS?
Ah. Right on cue.
A few blinks, and I can see again, even if it’s painful. Oh, crap, where are my glasses? They were so cute. And so expensive. Mum’s gonna kill me.
Shit. I fell down a hill. Mum’s gonna kill me.
Wait. Focus. What were we doing again? Oh yes. I look up very, very slowly, and squint at the blurry shape of Celine, who is carefully edging her way down the same treacherous hill that attempted to take my life. “STOP,” I tell her, but something’s clearly wrong with me because my voice is faint and raspy and my body hurts like someone stabbed me in the ribs. I feel sick. This is the worst pain I’ve ever felt. I make a mental note of the sensation in case I need to use it in a book; my hero is definitely the type to get stabbed every so often.
Meanwhile, Celine shouts “NO,” back at me and continues to court death like an idiot. Now I have to observe every single step she takes or else she might fall and die while I’m not looking. I hope she’s happy.
I remember with a lurch that I’m not happy because she doesn’t want what I want, and now I hurt on the inside and on the outside. What a thrilling adventure life is, and by “thrilling adventure,” I mean it’s shit.
“Brad?” This time it’s not Celine who calls my name, but someone who sounds alarmingly like Holly, if Holly was less than utterly monotonous for once. I can’t tell for sure who it is because they’re on my right side, and Celine is on my left, and I can’t look away from Celine. She could fall if I’m not looking. So I will look.
“Brad, can you hear me?” not-Holly demands.