Wild One

Thirty-Seven

Manon

He leaves, that cocky look on his face. He's so confident in my obsession for him. He thinks I'll never leave him of my own initiative.

He thinks wrong.

I guess...I just got used to him coming in and out. Showing me these peaks of himself. He's right though.—there never was an us.

Us takes work. Takes time.

We f****d. You don't get an us by f*****g.

By glimpses, true as they may be.

Even after that happened today, I can only think one thing: I hate her.

It hurts to feel, but it's what's there, trumming in the background of my mind, vibrating against the walls of my brain, ratting my thoughts.

I hate her.

IhateherIhateherIhateherIhateher.

I laugh, tears fighting to squeeze out. That makes me laugh more. My eyes burn, but nothing comes out.

He's in love with a woman who's dead. And I have a burning hatred for her. What did she do to deserve his devotion?

I can tell. I can sense it. Even when he's with me. In me, most of him, belongs to her. I get peaks. Glimpses.

What's so great about the b***h anyway? She's dead! Gone! Never coming back!

But he's in love with her. I gnash my teeth. So deeply in love with her that he doesn't see, doesn't feel, doesn't care about anything else.

Anyone else.

Especially not me. Not the girl who can't seem to leave him alone. The girl who stays in his house, waiting for him, like a willing bedslave, anxious.

The girl who holds him at night, when she gets the chance. Who doesn't ask questions when he comes back with blood on his clothes.

Who puts his hands on her face, knowing— knowing what those hands just did to someone.

Looking into his eyes and he doesn't even see me.

Break his heart? He doesn't have a heart to break. He doesn't have a heart to give.

I just...I wanted a chance. A chance to prove I'm just as special as her. I care about him just like she did, maybe more.

I'm sure she didn't have to share him with a dead girl.

But does he care? No. Does he see what I do for him? Of course not! Does it make me feel good, to be his little w***e?

Honestly, a little!

The man is excellent in bed, but that's not the point!

I sacrificed my dignity, a lot of it. My principles, my morals. My...

And this, this is—

The last straw. This is it for me. I can't keep doing this. It hurts.

So f*****g much, to be with him, but not be with him.

To have him near me, but not close.

I just...this infatuation is poisonous.

He's so poisonous. And maybe, at first, that was okay.

Because I've never been okay. And no one was ever okay with that, but him.

He was so wild and free, and just had this lack of giveashit and I wanted that.

I wanted him. I wanted him so bad.

But this isn't worth it.

He's not worth it.

***

As promised, he comes back the next day. He knocks on the door; I make no moves to answer it.

He opened it away, with a key I never gsve him. I keep watching Netflix as he enters my home uninvited.

"You do realize that I'm not a vampire. I can get in even if you don't invite me?"

I ignore, spooning more ice cream into my mouth as I watch Insatiable.

He sneers in disgust.

"What are you doing?"

Ah, Debby Ryan has fallen so far from Jessie, but damn I kinda like it.

He growls at my dismissal, stalking towards me. He yanks the tub of ice cream from me.

"Why are you eating this s**t? It'll make you sick."

I keep my eyes glued to the TV. I'll have to replay this episode. I'm not really watching it.

I'm hyperaware of his movements.

He sits next to me. "How long will you ignore me, pulcino?"

I almost smile at the name.

"Until you go away," I state simply.

"Why are you being like this, huh?"

"Because I'm smart. I learn from my mistakes."

Something about that triggers him.

"Is that what I am to you? A mistake?"

I don't answer. He grips my face, making me wince. His eyes blaze.

"I'm a mistake, Manon?"

He pulls me into a kiss, harsh, punishing, bruising. He takes out his frustration on my lips as he bites, and licks them.

He pulls away breathless.

"Don't ever call this a mistake again."

My whole body tingles, because holy christ he's so intense. But he's not mine. He belongs to her.

"No," I push him away.

"Why?" He demanded of me, shaking me a little.

"Because you belong to her, not to me."

He backs away from me. "What?"

"The girl you were in love with. The one who died."

All the Mediterranean tan drained from his face.

"What?"

I get up, pacing. "What was her name?"

"We're not having this conversation--"

"Tell me her name!"

He starts getting frantic, his accent drowning his words.

"No! Why? I like you!"

"You love her. What is her name!"

He froze, eyeing me in all my determination.

"Why do you need to know her name?"

"Because I just do."

He looks away. "You don't. You don't know me. You don't know me to love me. You don't deserve her name."

He might as well have shot me in the chest.

"Get out," I whisper. He doesn't move.

"Get out!" I scream, sinking to the ground. I'm so done with this.

He gets up silently, slamming the door behind him.

I'm so done with this.