12
“Is it really so awful having me here?” he asks.
I don’t know if I can even speak to answer that question.
Not only because yes—yes, it’s so f*****g awful—but because all the strength to speak has left my body at the first, full sight of him. At the stylish, monochrome outfit clinging to the curves of his arms and the muscles of his thighs. At his gorgeous eyes and his mouth framed so lickably by stubble.
Abruptly, I want to tell him everything. I want to say, here’s the reason I left, and have it mean something, have it be worth all the miserable days and weeks I caused us both. Have it clarify its own delay, because the reason I left is the same reason I couldn’t tell him why I left. I was still too f****d up for a long time to face the idea of explaining things. And then ev
