Chapter Twenty-Nine
Marisa
“Hello”- Leo, Pete Cottrel
Justin’s called. Texted. I won’t answer or respond. I want to, of course I do, but this is part of the game. What girl in their right mind would justget overthis?
I open the fridge and look for something to eat. Leftover Chinese. Chicken and rice. Just when I am reaching for a Tupperware container, there’s a knock at my door. “Marisa... ” Justin’s deep, sexy voice comes sifting through the door before he knocks again. “Please let me talk to you.”
I close my eyes and shut the fridge. “Just a minute,” I try my best to sound worn out and tired, like I’ve been sobbing all day. But my eyes... I glance around the kitchen, grab an onion that’s seen better days and a knife. I quickly cut into it, rub my finger over the sticky inside, then dab it right in both my eyes. It burns and I reach for the faucet, bend over the sink, and splash water on my face. The burning lets up just enough that I can now keep my eyes open. I blot my face off and head to the door, knowing my eyes must look like I’ve been crying for hours on end.Hours on end, Justin. You heartless bastard.When I pull the door open, I have to wipe away the tears pouring from my eyes. I glance at the floor, looking at Justin’s black Chuck Taylors as I hold onto the edge of the door. “Fuck,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
I glance up at him, the tears still coming. “I just don’t... ”
“Please let me come in.”
I step to the side and he walks in, grabbing my hand and leading me into the living room where he takes me by the waist, lifts my chin with one hand, and wipes away the tears with his thumb.Just like in a book. See how well I can write our story, Justin?“I... ” he swallows, and I’m certain he’s unable to find the words. “I just, I never meant to hurt you.”
I exhale. “Okay.”
“I’m serious. I may be a dick, but everything I said to you, I meant.” He shakes his head, rolling his bottom lip underneath his perfect white teeth. “I like you, Marisa. I just, I just suck at shit like this.”
“All those girls, I mean, I feel sick.”
“Babe, they were before you.”
Where they really, Justin? Where they really?I stare at him, my eyes still swelling with fake tears. “I just—” He grabs me and slams his full lips over mine and I go weak, limp. I turn to a ball of putty in his arms. He pulls away just an inch, just enough that I can see his blue, blue eyes. “You were always my favorite,” he says, and that unsettled anger slowly rips at my chest, pulling meat and flesh from my bones. Just when I thought he’d learned—he’s like a dog that keeps shitting in his food bowl.
I pull away from him, but he grabs my face again, holding my jaw so tight I’m afraid he’ll leave a bruise. “Wait,” he says. “You were always my favorite, Marisa. Always will be, which is why you should be my one.”
I drag in a breath. I fight the real tears now, choking and sputtering over what I should say. “Please,” I whisper, “please don’t make me hate you.”
“I won’tletyou hate me.”
But oh, Justin, what a thin line that is. The line between love and hate, hate and love. It’s a thin, fragile little line that you keep toeing. Toeing. Toeing. Toeing, and one more fumble, one more slip up and that line will turn into a tripwire that’s going to explode into a massive ball of fire.
