Well, Actually

by Mazey Eddings

“No,” he repeats, taking another step. “See, Eva, I’m not recreating last night. Because I’m here. I’m showing up. You, on the other hand, left.” “So what?” I shoot back, acrid hostility burning through my veins, my hands shaking with the need to push him back, hold him close. “Are you looking for a congratulations on figuring out the subway system and wandering to my doorstep? Or did you drive here in your hideous car?” “Stop making fun of my car!” “Then stop driving a car so easy to make fun of!” Rylie stares at me so intensely I have to fight the urge to squirm. The energy shifts between us, becoming alive and crackling with tension. He takes another step toward me. “I’m here to check on you, you contrarian witch. I’m here to see if you’re okay.” “I’m not okay!” I yell, storming to him, closing the space between us so we’re nose to nose. “I haven’t been okay since you waltzed back into my life with this ridiculous publicity stunt. I have not been okay for a damn second of this manufactured bullshit between us that we serve on the internet like a slab of meat to rabid dogs. I’m not okay because you’re making me feel things and I fucking hate it! So stop. Stop pretending. Stop checking on me. Stop, stop, stop and let me get back to being generally miserable in peace.” Our chests clash as we breathe, ragged, sharp intakes that border on panting. Rylie’s eyes look wild, his glasses fogged at the edges from the agitation simmering between us. With considerable effort, he let...