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To sum it up, he was a morally gray hunk who was a total red flag—my age group’s favorite color scheme.
“Fine. Want the truth? Here’s the truth: No, I didn’t ‘have feelings’ for you.” He air-quoted the words with a sneer. “I was in love with you. Honest to fucking God, full-blown, snatch-my-heart-out-and-let-you-use-it-as-a-stress-ball in love with you.” He looked disgusted with himself for uttering each word. “And you didn’t give half a shit about me.”
“I didn’t fall.” He omitted a sharp, irritated huff. “You fucking tripped me.”
oBITCHuary: What am I, then? McMonster: If I have a say about it? Mine.
“I. Didn’t. Even. Touch. Her,” he said, slowly now, his eyes glittering in the dark, boring into mine. “We went on a few dates, mainly in hopes you’d find out and see that I’d moved on from your ass. I don’t remember where. I don’t remember what she wore. What we talked about. I only remember how she made me feel.” “How?” “Bored to fucking tears.” “She wasn’t what you were looking for?” I licked my lips, feeling guilty about drawing so much pleasure from hearing this. “She wasn’t you.”
“Let me make something very clear here—I love cooking. I love traveling. I love money.” I took a breath. “But I love you more than all of those things combined. That won’t change tomorrow, next month, or next year. You’ve given me in eight weeks what I haven’t had in twenty-seven years. You’ve given me smiles, laughs, warmth, and hope. But I have to protect my own heart too, and right now, spending time with you is killing me. If, one day, be it near or far, you change your mind, you know where to find me. Until then, it’s all or nothing. And I’ll take nothing over something.”
