Andywas at my back, pressing her hands to the dress shirt I had borrowed fromJenna's husband. “Vinnie, it's okay.”
Ishook my head as the torrential downpour of tears finally ensued. “No, it'snot. This isn't okay. None of this shit is okay.”
“Iknow you don't think it now, but you're going to be fine.”
Turningaround on my heel, I pinned her to the spot with a fiery glare. “Don't youfucking pretend to know what I think. You have no idea what's going on in myhead. You, you have no fuckingcluewhat it's like.”
Sheblinked, startled, and I knew I should've felt bad, but I didn't. “Okay,” shesaid, nodding. “You're right. I don't know. I've never lost a parent—”
“I'velost two parents!” I shouted. “Did you know that? I'm a fuckin' orphan now.”
“—butI do deal with death every day of my life,” she continued without answering myquestion. “Everybody copes with it differently, so if you're mad or upset or-or... whatever you're feeling, you're not wrong. Just tell me what I can do tohelp. Iwantto help.”
Therewas one thing that I knew without a doubt would help me. One thing I knew wouldtake the pain away. The impossible itch was tickling at my veins and whisperingits sweet nothings into my ear. It fed me it’s delicious, empty promises, and Iwanted it. Ineededit so badly, yet I knew I couldn't have it. And thatvery act of slapping myself with a big, fatno,was in and of itselftorture.
“Youcan't help me.”
Tearssprung to her eyes at the cold slash of my words. “Tell me what I can do.Please,”she begged, reaching out and pressing her hands over my stupid beating heart.
Herinsistence was infuriating, but her hands were so warm, so soft and gentle. Imelted just slightly under her affection and was reminded of something else Ihadn't had in a long time. Something not as numbing as cocaine but just astemporary and almost as good. And Andy could give it to me.
“Youwanna help?” I asked, laying a hand over hers, as my brief stint with tearsdried sticky on my face.
Shenodded. “Yes.”
Itook a step forward, then another, slowly backing her into the table andstaring at her with impure, carnal intent. Then, I smiled at the sharp inhaleof breath she took at the impact of wood against the top of her thighs. She hadworn a dress to my father's funeral, and while I knew it hadn't been chosen forsexual convenience, it certainly was convenient now.
“Turnaround,” I instructed, calm and cold.
“W-what?”
Herfingers clenched at the fabric against my chest, her eyes searching minefrantically, looking for the guy she'd been dating for the past couple ofmonths. The guy who was crass but romantic, sarcastic but kind. She wanted thatguy to carry her to his room, lay her down, and make love to her. But rightnow, on the precipice of grief and weakness, I wasn't that guy. I couldn't be.I could respect her, I would never hurt her, and if she told me to stop, Iwould without hesitation. But she wanted to help me and all I had known was tofuck, and so, in that moment, that's what she'd be.
Aneasy fuck.
“Isaid, turn around.”
Iwaited for her to tell me no. I think, somewhere deep down, I hoped she would.But after pausing for just a moment, she stood on her toes, pressed her lips tomine for the smallest fraction of a second, then nodded.
Andsome part of me still tried. Tried to show that I appreciated her, as I benther over the table and lifted her dress. I tried to show that I genuinelywanted this, wantedher, as I unzipped my pants and pulled her pantiesto the side, putting her on full display—eager and trembling. I tried to begentle, as I repeatedly thrust into her body, holding on tightly to her hips.But all I did was destroy and wreck everything within reach, as we moved fromthe table, to the wall, to the counter, breaking picture frames and shatteringsalt and pepper shakers. Mugs crashed to the floor and the toaster fell with ametallic clatter. The kitchen I had shared with my father was all but burnt tothe ground as I fucked her, trying so hard to reach a point within her bodythat would take me to a place of numb euphoria, while also trying to show her Icared.
Isucceeded at neither.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
ANDREA
Someoneso angry and sad shouldn't have been so beautiful, but that's exactly whatVinnie was—angry, sad, and so devastatingly beautiful. He had used my body sothoroughly, it was a wonder I could even walk from his bedroom to the bathroomthe next morning.
AndI should've been mad, I knew that. I should've felt disrespected and betrayed.But even as I stared at myself in the mirror, smudged makeup and all, I onlyfelt sorry for him. And glad I hadn’t left him alone.
Splashingcold water on my face, I recalled the seemingly endless night of animalisticsex that took place in the kitchen, living room, and finally, his bedroom.Decorations had been shattered, appliances had been broken, and not once had hesaid my name. There had been no cuddling afterward. No romantic moments ofsated euphoria. We had simply rolled in opposite directions on a bed too smallfor two people and laid there silently until sleep took us both. I had staredat the wall for hours, listening to the change in his breathing as he fellasleep, wondering how I should confront him, or if I should confront him atall. After all, I had given him permission. I hadn’t said no. And it wasn’t asthough the sex wasn’t good, because oh, God, it was. But I couldn’t help but bedisappointed that our first time hadn’t been more meaningful, more romantic,more … more … Just more.
Andso much less of what it was.
Now,the moment of confrontation was here, and bloated butterflies moved sluggishlyaround my stomach. Still in my dress from the day before, I exited the bathroomand walked through the small apartment, stepping over strewn papers and brokenglass, until I reached the kitchen. There I found Vinnie, shirtless and pickingthe Keurig up off the floor.
Notyet knowing what to say, I reached down to pick up the salt and pepper shakers,cooking utensils, and the plastic container they’d been kept in, until Vinniecleared his throat and asked, “So, um … coffee?”
