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It’s the other phrase that gets me, though. Make a life. It’s the first indication I’ve gotten of what Rafe wants. What he hopes for. How he thinks things work—like a life is something you can create rather than something that’s dumped on you.
And I hate it. I hate that he made me feel so good and then I probably made him feel like shit. I hate that I just had the best fucking orgasm of my life and then I ruined it. I hate that I wanted to kiss Rafe’s neck and instead I’m freaking out. I hate it. I hate myself for fucking it all up. I hate myself for being such a mess that I can’t even get off without wanting to punch myself in the face.
“I think sometimes the people we get angriest with are the ones who have the things we want the most.”
“I wish I was dead,” I whisper, too soft for anyone to hear, and Rafe’s hands on me falter.
Is there a word for just not trying very hard to avoid ceasing to exist?
“You were as much in prison as anyone I knew there, Colin. Only you created it for yourself. Your father paced out the cell and your brothers fit the bars and you turned the key in the lock and buried it somewhere only you know. And you stared at Daniel through the bars and cursed him for being able to walk out the door. But he’s not the one who did something wrong. All he did was save himself. And you can too. But you have to find that key and unlock the door.”
“Armor,” he goes on. “Armor’s not dangerous. That’s for survival. It’s weapons you have to watch out for. And you—” He strokes my lips with his thumb. “It’s mostly armor, Colin. And when you’re with me, the armor falls away. Who you are without it… it’s beautiful.”
“If Rafe’s what you want, then you have to fight for him the way you’d fight someone who was trying to take something away from you. You know how to fight. You’ve just got to figure out what are the right moves to win this one.”
There should be a word for living a life so different from anything you ever thought was possible that you don’t even recognize yourself in it.
