Page 41 of Badd Love
I bent over the bed. "Is this what you want? Take it. Take me! Fuck me! Use me, just like every other man has." I straightened and whirled on him. "Or no, wait—I've got that backward. I usethem, Dane. You know why? Because some fucked-up part of my brain thinks if I have enough sex with enough random dudes, maybe I'll somehow get over what Danny fucking Cohen did to me every fucking day forfour fucking years! I know I won't, but I do it anyway because I'm a dumb fucking whore! I'm a dumbfucking whore with a useless fucking degree from stupid fucking Stanford. I'll never amount to anything. I thought I could escape Boston, but I just brought my shit with me." I stepped into his space. "Hear me when I say this, and hear me well, Dane Badd:I—cannot—love you. I know that's what you want. You want what your family has. Good! You deserve that. You're a damn good man, Dane Badd. But you won't get it from me. So yes. Go home and try to forget me."
He gazed at me in sad silence for a long, long time. And then he bent, picked up his T-shirt—the one he was wearing yesterday—and tugged it over my head. Numb and confused, I let him put my arms through the sleeves. Helpless to stop myself, I lifted black cotton to my nose and inhaled his scent.
Fuck.
My nose stung.
My eyes burned.
"Go home, Dane," I whispered. "Try to forget me. Maybe in a different universe I could be what you want me to be, but…here and now? I just can't be that girl for you."
He let out a long breath through pursed lips. Nodded. "Okay. Okay."
He stepped backward, face crushed by sorrow, regret, wistfulness, anger, and hurt. Without looking away from me, he got dressed. Boxers, jeans, socks, shoes—last of all, he put on the white T-shirt I'd kept all this time. The white T-shirt I'd been wearing for three days without washing—because it smelled like him. It must smell like me, now…but B-O and pussy stank, not perfume.
He shoved his phone into his back pocket, swept his hand through his hair, messing it up even more. "I'll just ask one question."
I swallowed hard. "Fine. I'll answer one question.One.”
"Why—or how—did it stop?"
“He got arrested for rape and went to prison."
"Good riddance, then." He let out a breath. "Lindsey, I…" he covered his face with his hands for a moment, and then tried again. "I'll go. For now. But I'm not giving up on you. On this—on us."
"There is no us and never will be." My heart broke when I said that, because deep down, that's all I wanted.
I was telling the truth, though: I genuinely did not feel capable of love, giving or receiving. It was too scary. Too big. Too much for the pathetic ruins of my heart, which hadn't survived the trauma of my youth.
He stepped into my space, closer and closer until he occluded the whole world.
"Don’tkissme," I hissed, all in a rush. "Please. I can't take it."
He didn't respond. Cradled my face. Stared into my eyes. My heart broke and broke and broke and broke as I met his gaze, seeing the vast, incomprehensible scope of his feelings for me.
Still, he spoke not a word.
Instead of kissing my lips, he kissed my forehead.
Infinitely worse.
I shattered, then.
Wept.
Sobbed silently.
"Fuck you," I hissed.
"I know."
"You're ugly and stupid, and you have a tiny penis, and you couldn't find my clit with a map and a flashlight."
His laugh was a quiet sniff. "I know."
"I hate you," I breathed, chin on my chest, tears dripping down my cheeks. "I really, really, really fucking hate you, Dane Badd."
“I know. I hate you too." He kissed my forehead again, which was cruel and mean and horrible.
