Taming 7 (Boys of Tommen, #5)

by Chloe Walsh

Death would be better than this. It hurts. I was already dying on the inside. Make it stop. My insides were already ruined.

Being happy was a decision I made for myself and, miraculously, it helped. It wasn’t real, I didn’t truly feel that way, but I was a firm believer in faking it until you made it.

If drugs were to Joey Lynch what Claire Biggs was to me, then there was no amount of rehab that could sway me to kick the habit. Because she was the habit of my lifetime.

I was numb to the point of being dead, and if I didn’t feel things with Claire, then it would confirm that my past had truly broken me beyond repair.

Clenching my eyes shut, I took a moment to compose myself, to slide my comedic, carefree mask into place. It covered me like a blanket of deceit and protection.

I was, as my mother once referred to me, “wearing.” Meaning I was exhausting to handle, and that drove people away.

I had trouble being alone with myself. It didn’t feel good to be on my own. In company was when I worked best. Being alone fucked with my head worse than anything else. Because being alone meant that I had to think. And I fucking hated thinking. I had a chaotic thought process that had been given a formal diagnosis from doctors but no reprieve.

The sky was blue outside. The birds were out. The sun was shining. It was another blissful morning. And I wanted to scream.

“You are fantastic.” “You’re a dope.” “I’d gladly be dope if you put me in your mouth.”

“It’s all good, Gerard,” she added, smiling up at me. “You’re good.” No, I wasn’t. But I could pretend to be. For her.

I had never admitted it at the time, and never would, but a lot of my anger was caused by a hefty dollop of jealousy.

Because the sad fact of the matter was that while I had zero experience with boys in bedrooms, this particular boy could do whatever he wanted to me, and I would gladly participate. That’s how desperately my body craved his touch.

“Why are you bringing all of this shit up again?” he tried to change the narrative by demanding. “It’s in the past, Gibs. It’s dead and buried.” “Maybe for you,” I strangled out. “But I’m still living it every day.” He rolled his eyes like I was being dramatic. Like my memories and my pain and his action didn’t ruin me on the daily.

Always the joker. Hiding his pain behind a smile.

“Fuck!” Losing his cool, he looked up the night sky and roared the word, “Fuck,” at the top of his lungs. “You fucking push, Claire. You push and you push!” He threw his hands up helplessly. “And I don’t have anything left to give.”

“You can’t love me the same way.” “You’re right,” I agreed. “Because I love you more.” “Don’t lie.” His voice was heartbreakingly vulnerable in this moment. “Please don’t say it if you don’t mean it.” “I love you more,” I repeated, tone unwavering. “I want you more. I am disgustingly attracted to you, Gerard Gibson, and nothing about your past can change that.”