Ugly Love(51)

I can see why he hasn’t been in a relationship for six years. He’s obviously clueless when it comes to how a guy should treat a girl, which surprises me, because I get these vibes from him that he’s really a decent guy. However, his actions during and after sex seem to contradict his character. It’s as if pieces of the guy he used to be bleed over into the guy he’s trying to be.
If any other man ever treated me like he did, it would be the one and only time. I don’t put up with the things I’ve seen a lot of my friends put up with. However, I find myself continuing to make excuses for him, like something could actually justify his actions last week.
I’m beginning to fear that maybe I’m not so tough after all.
That fear is immediately confirmed with the skip of my heart as soon as I step off the elevator. There’s a note taped to my apartment door, so I rush to it and pull it down. It’s just a folded piece of paper without anything written on the outside of it. I open it: I need to run an errand. I’ll stop by at seven if you want to come with me. I read the note several times. It’s obviously from him, and it’s obviously for me, but the note reads so incredibly casual that for a second, I begin to doubt that Thursday even happened.
He was there, though. He knows how that night ended between us. He knows I must be upset or angry, but nothing in his note reveals that at all.
I unlock my door and walk inside before I can work myself up to the point of beating on his door to scream at him.
I drop my things once I’m inside my apartment and read the note one more time, dissecting everything from his handwriting down to his selection of words. I wad it up in my hands and throw it toward the kitchen, completely pissed off.
I’m pissed because I already know I’ll be going with him.
I don’t know how not to.
? ? ?

There’s a soft knock on the door at exactly seven o’clock. His punctuality pisses me off, and there’s no reason for it. I have nothing against punctuality. I have a feeling every single thing Miles does tonight is going to piss me off.
I walk to the front door and open it.
He’s standing in the hallway, several feet away. He’s probably closer to his door than to mine, actually. He’s looking down at his feet when I open the door, but he eventually lifts his eyes to meet mine. His hands are tucked away in his jacket pockets again, and he doesn’t lift his head all the way up. I take this as a sign of submission from him, even though it’s more than likely not.
“Want to come?”
His voice invades me. Weakens me. Turns me into liquid again. I nod as I step out into the hall and close the door behind me. I lock it and turn around to face him. He nods his head toward the elevators, silently telling me he’ll follow behind me. I try to read the expression in his eyes, but I should know better.
I walk toward the elevator and press the down button.
He stands next to me, but neither of us speaks. It takes the elevator what seems like years to get to us. When it finally opens, we both breathe a quiet sigh of relief, but as soon as we’re inside and the doors close, neither of us can breathe again.
I can feel him watching me, but I don’t look at him.
I can’t.
I feel stupid. I feel like I want to cry again. Now that I’m here and I have no idea where we’re going, I feel like a fool for allowing him to even get me this far.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is weak, but it’s also surprisingly sincere.
I don’t look at him. I don’t even respond.
He takes three steps across the elevator, and then he reaches down beside me and presses the emergency stop button. His finger lingers on the button as he watches me, but I keep my eyes down. My face is level with his chest, but my jaw is tense, and I won’t look up at him.
I won’t.
“Tate, I’m sorry,” he repeats. He’s still not touching me, but he’s invading again. He’s standing so close to me I can feel his breath and him and how much he really is sorry, but I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be forgiving him for. He never promised anything other than sex, and that’s exactly what he gave me.
Sex.
Nothing less and definitely nothing more.
“I’m sorry,” he says again. “You didn’t deserve that.”
This time, he touches my chin, lifting my eyes to meet his. The feel of his fingers on my face causes my jaw to grow even more tense. I’m doing everything I can to keep up my armor, because I’m finding it hard to fight back my tears.
The same thing I saw in his eyes when he kissed me at his door Thursday night is back. Something unspoken that he wishes he could say, but the only words that come out of his mouth are his apologies.
He winces as though he’s experiencing actual physical pain, and he presses his forehead to mine. “I’m sorry.”
He presses his palms against the elevator wall and leans into me until our chests are touching. My arms are at my sides, and my eyes are closed, and as much as I feel like crying right now, I refuse to do it in front of him. I’m still not sure what he’s apologizing for specifically, but it doesn’t matter, because it sounds like he’s apologizing for everything. For starting something with me that we knew wouldn’t end well. For not being able to open up about his past. For not being able to open up about his future. For ruining me when he walked into his bedroom and slammed his door.
One of his hands wraps around the side of my head, and he pulls me against him. His other hand drops to my back, and he squeezes me, pressing his cheek against the top of my head. “I don’t know what this is, Tate,” he confesses. “But I swear, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”