Chapter Seventeen
Marisa
“Weak”- AJR.
Inhaling, I shut the door behind me. I glance around my beautiful apartment and feel so alone. All I can see is the couch Justin sat on. The Ansel Adam picture I bought to show him how much I care, how much alike we are. I walk through to my bedroom, stopping in the doorway and staring at the bed we slept on. Only once, five days ago. When I lay my head on the pillow he used, I can still smell him and I don’t know how I’ll bring myself to ever wash these sheets again. But I will... one day.
I saw Justin standing at the window of the coffee shop with Cobain. He walked off. I wanted to run outside and chase after him, calling him a bastard. An asshole. But I didn’t, because that’s not how we play the game. Is it? That’s what I did with John. I fought. I got angry—and while it’s expected to be angry, you can’t let him see you care. I’m convinced had I pretended like I didn’t care. Had I told John to go ahead and leave... he would have.
I bury my face in the pillow and let my tears soak into the pillowcase. My heart pounds, my chest grows tight, and then anger slowly rises like a tide, inch by inch, until I’m completely submerged beneath it’s warm waves. When love goes wrong, it goes wrong. And there are two reactions a woman can choose to have: let it break her, or get even. A man will never break me again, and the thing is, I’m the queen and he’s the king. He’s taken me off the board, so he thinks the game is over. In his mind, maybe it is, but the thing is, the game only ends when the kind is dead.
I miss him. I roll over and fish my phone from my jean pocket, telling myself not to text him. Instead, I type Justin’s name into Google and within a matter of seconds, thousands of pictures populate on the screen. Professional headshots, Twitter and Instagram posts, and there, in the middle of the screen, is the selfie he took last weekend of me and him on that bed. I stare at it. At the pink flush on my cheeks, my lipstick slightly smudged. My eyes sting with pathetic tears. I want to curse Marilyn Monroe because she said to be with a guy that ruins your lipstick not your mascara, well, what do you do with one who ruins both? Huh? Tell me that fucking Marilyn!
I click on the picture and it opens his Facebook. I read over the post he made just a few minutes after he uploaded that picture of us:Love finds it humble beginnings within the depths of a stranger who will one day be your everything. #AmWriting #WordPorn
He’s fucked up and needs help. I need help for being in love with him because, yes, I am in love with him. This stabbing pain in my chest, the obsessive thoughts... it’s all love.
The heavenly sound of that Sherwood Forest horn plays from my phone and my heart trips over its self.
Justin Wild: Hey gorgeous. I miss you. Let me hold you. 212 Water Street. Apt 3C. Text me when you get here and I’ll buzz you in.
I stare at the message, conflicting emotions churning through my heart and mind.
I’m busy
I respond. I watch the little bubble trail move across the screen, my heart pounding as he types out his response.
Please... I can’t get you out of my head.
And then he sends one of those kissy face emoticons and the little hands praying. My heart softens, it has, after all, only been two days. Just two days of no texting or calling, of avoiding me. He’s busy. Maybe, just maybe, I’ve been playing the game too aggressively. How can I expect him to make himself vulnerable to love when I act like I couldn’t care less about him?One more chance, Justin.So, I wipe the tears from below my eyes, retouch my makeup, and I’m out the door. Five minutes later, I’m standing in front of 212 Water Street, my heart in my throat, my nerves on edge. Because even though I’ve slept with Justin, even though I can close my eyes and see what he looks like naked and wet, standing in the shower with a smirk on his face, there are still moments where I realize exactly who he is.
I text him to let him know I’m here and, moments later, he’s coming out of the entrance in a pair of gym shorts and a tight, fitted tee. “There’s my pretty girl,” he says, placing an arm around me and dragging me in for a kiss. I can taste whisky on his lips, an expensive selection thick with the taste of oak. His hands slip to my ass and he grabs both cheeks—hard. “The things I’m gonna do to you.” Another kiss and he’s lacing his fingers with mine, leading me up the concrete steps of 212 Water Street. A girl giggles down the road. And I bet she wishes she was me, but she’s not. She’s not Justin Wild’s girl. I fucking am.
The door swings in to an unimpressive foyer. A pile of moving boxes is sat to the right of the door, a bicycle leaned against the wall beside them. I follow Justin to the elevator, my hand still in his, his thumb rubbing gently over my knuckles.You don’t do things like that with a fuckbuddy. You don’t, but you do invite them over to fuck you.
The elevator takes us to the fifth floor and we exit, going to the last room on the right. He opens the door and Cobain comes scurrying up, barking.
“Oh, come on now, Cobain. She’s our friend.” He pats him on the head and he settles, his tail wagging and knocking against the entranceway wall. “Now. Bed.” Justin points across the room and the dog hurries over, hopping into a gingham bed set by the large floor to ceiling window.
I glance around. Everything is clean. Black and white paintings all over the walls. Red sofa and loveseat with a black and white striped chair in the corner. I follow him into the living room and he motions for me to have a seat. “Would you like some wine?” he asks. I nod as I sit, and he goes to the kitchen. Above the chair, there’s a guitar in a display case. I squint and can barely make out the signature scrawled over the shiny black paint.
“NIN,” he says, handing me a glass of Chardonnay. “Met them when they played Madison Square.”
“Oh, wow. I love them.”I hate them...
He settles onto the couch next to me with his wine, placing his free hand on my thigh. “Yep, Trent’s a pretty cool guy.” He points behind us and I turn. The wall is covered with drumsticks and guitar picks, playlist and album covers—all signed. “Met a lot of really cool musicians actually. John Mayer’s a dick. The guy from Tool, he’s pretty fucking epic.”
Epic.I shudder at the use of that word.What are we, Justin, twenty?“That’s amazing, how did you—”
“My ex-girlfriend. She did some publicity shit for Sony.” He takes a swig of his wine, and I cringe at the thought of him and her naked together.
“Oh... ” I take a large gulp of wine. “That must have been fun.”
“Yeah, she was a lot of fun.”
I bet she fucking was.I want to ask if she was brunette. If she was dense like cardboard with huge boobs and good in bed, but instead, I smile. He takes my wine glass from my hand and sets it on the coffee table in front of us, “I missed you.” His hand glides up my neck and he cups my jaw, his fingers scratching up into my hair. I bite down on my lip. I don’t want to admit I missed him. “You’ll have to forgive me for being a dick the past few days, I just, this, us... it just scares me. It’s intense and... ” He rolls his lip between his teeth before he kisses me again, this time harder, more claiming. He fists my hair, jerking my head to the side.
I kiss him back, moaning into his mouth, tugging at his shirt and the waist of his jeans. “God, I hate you,” I whisper against his lips.
