Page 153 of Hunger
I drop my head, trying to breathe as I stare at the floor between us, wondering why I have to be so fucking mean—meaner than I've ever been to anyone else. I don't want to say these things to him, but the frustration of him messing with my head just as I’m trying to heal from everything has me feeling panicked, out of control; my mind hacked, my thoughts derailed, drawn endlessly to a man who has given me a ten-point presentation as to how many red flags he’s waving about.
Maybe it’s me who’s fucked up, not him.
I've spent my life searching for connection, knowing full well that it’s not your blood family who will always provide that, but those special people who blaze into your life and who you have to do everything in your power to not let go of. I felt that with Marilla, with Orpha, with Harry, with Fran, Rami, Yoshi, and the handful of close friends I have.
And I felt it with him.
Some hormonal stupor, no doubt.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Indigo. Or keep you in limbo.”
I lift my gaze from the floor. “Then,what?”
“I've… been unable to get a sense of closure,” he replies. “After our time together.”
“Oh, you poor thing.”
“I know it’s my fault. I just… I wanted to know if you had the same problem as me? If you needed closure?”
The word irritates me, conjuring up closed doors.
“No,” I lie. “I don’t needclosurefrom you. What I need to do is express how it feels when the man you’ve just spent the night having sex drops you off at home and announces you’ll never see him again, especially when you’ve just been through something… traumatic together.”
Tears well up in my eyes as hurt bubbles to the surface, coupled with my own shame at being so judgmental—I mean, he’d just been stabbed with a knife trying to protect me. Maybe him running away was a way to deal with that…
“Okay,” he responds. “Go ahead.”
“What?”
“Tell me how it felt. I’ll listen to anything you have to say without judgment, anything that will help us get it out.”
“Us?” I sneer.
“Yes,” he responds, eyes so focused on mine that every time I look away and then back, they’re still roaming all over my face, as if he sees nothing in the room but me. “Us.I don’t believe I’m the only one who’s struggled to move on. Or am I wrong?”
“And what evidence are you basing that on?” I ask, feeling affronted at his presumptuousness, even if he is right on the money.
“I know you’re hurt. I can feel it in my chest.”
“Oh, what tipped you off, Sherlock?” I scoff, and dammit, a treacherous tear falls swiftly down my face before I can stop it. I wipe it away fast, but I know he sees the glistening smear left behind. I drop my head, composing myself, wishing I could cool myself off before talking and not just tornado my way through every conversation with him.
In truth, I’m not used to talking to men like this—so disrespectfully, so openly. It hits me how safe I feel saying these things and how unsafe I felt in my last two relationships. Kohl wasn’t abusive but I guess I never quite felt like I could fully be myself around him, and I never talked to him like this, ever.
But then, my heart never hurt when things ended with him the way it did when Greyson looked me in the eyes, handed me a letter which I have no intention of reading, and walked away.
By the time I look back up, another stupid tear is running its slow path down my face and as I meet his eyes, he grimaces as he studies me.
“I’m hurt too, Indie. Even if it was my fault. And I hate this fucking feeling you inflict on me. We need a way to get this out.”
“How?”
“For a start, tell me how I hurt you, and I’ll tell you all the ways you’ve taken control from me.”
“An impromptu Saturday night therapy session? How considerate of you.”
“I mean it,” he replies, the words harboring a growl. “I want to hear it. I want you to call me an asshole if you need to.”
“Oh, Ineedto.”