Page 140 of The Rival's Obsession
He looks at me now. Really looks. Eyes red-rimmed and glassy. “I need you to know... I didn’t even realize what she thought. What she accused you of. Not until the next day. She said it again, and I was already so messed up from what I saw—what I relived—I just... shut down.”
The breath he lets out trembles.
“I should’ve corrected her. I should’ve explained. But then you...” His voice softens. “You had girls with you. The men. All the time. And I thought you didn’t care.”
My chest tightens. “I did it to get to you.”
He blinks.
“I wanted you to hurt.” I say it simply, honestly. “I wanted you to feel what I felt when you looked through me like I didn’t matter. Like I hadn’t mattered that night. So I flaunted them—every damn one of them. And the more you acted like it didn’t bother you...” I swallow hard. “I’ve been going fucking insane.”
“It did bother me. Every time.” His voice is quieter now, wrecked in that way only truth can be. “I couldn’t stand seeing you with anyone else. I just thought I deserved the punishment.”
I look at him—really look at him—and I realize I can’t wait anymore.
I can’t go another second letting him think he deserves anything less than the world.
Because he’s here, in my room, in my life again—and if I don’t say this now, I’ll never forgive myself.
He just told me the worst day of his life. And all I want to do is pull him out of it.
Not with logic or reassurance.
But with something real—something that’s been buried beneath the wreckage of us for so many goddamn years.
I shift closer on the bed, resting one hand lightly against his thigh. He’s trembling—still somewhere in that memory.
“Hey,” I say softly, “do you want to know why I call you glowbug?”
His eyes flick up to mine. And for a second, he doesn’t speak.
But I see the curiosity he never admitted. The frustration in the name he never understood. The way he always flinched like it carried more weight than it should’ve.
He doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t have to.
“I know you hate it,” I say, “and part of the reason is because you don’t remember where it came from.”
He swallows, throat bobbing. Still quiet.
“The day your mom died,” I continue, “my dad brought you to our house. Your father was being questioned by the police, and my parents didn’t want you left alone in your home.”
Something shifts in his face. A flicker. A shadow of recognition like light catching on glass.
He remembers.
“The glowbugs,” he says under his breath.
I nod.
We sat under the willow tree in my backyard—two boys side by side, your grief a living thing between us. And then, all at once, the field lit up around us like the universe was trying to say,You’re not alone.
“They were everywhere,” I whisper. “Thousands of them. Like they were drawn to you.”
His lips part slightly. He’s somewhere between memory and disbelief.
“I wanted to tell you that night,” I say. “I looked at you—and I swear to God, Grant, you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Sitting there with your eyes red from crying, wrapped in the gold of the setting sun, surrounded by light.” My voice dips, reverent. “You looked like magic.”
He blinks hard. A tear slips free.
