Page 202 of Overcast

I love her.

Both me, as Marty, and Emric when I’m in my own little world with B723. I can’t filter the intensities from my brain, I can’t drink them to death or convince myself that this is for the better.

It is—for her.

And at the end of the day, that’s what matters.

But my selfishness slithers through my rationality and demands that I go back. To apologize and tell her straight to her face that I’m in love with her. That I can’t “be” without her in my life.

Nothing functions or smells the same, I can’t get a decent night’s sleep nor a conversation with anyone. I feel as though I’m tripping on a bad high that makes me groggy, cranky, and dazed.

“Tacos are done!” Reagan bounces on her toes in front of her stove after blaring Waste Love by MGKfor the last four minutes.

I don’t mind it.

In fact, I prefer it because it means we can’t talk.

She can’t ask me questions, and I don’t have to cover lies up with more lies because nothing is okay right now.

I’m about to spiral, I can feel it, the uneasy motion like you’re about to go over the edge of a rollercoaster.

I believe the word for it is an anxiety attack, and I haven’t had one of those since stumbling out from the small pond and finding my whole village on fire at eight-years-old.

I didn’t know what to do, how to cope with the loss of everyone I loved at one time. The pain was too extreme to process, and what I’m feeling right now resembles that.

I can’t stop fidgeting.

I need something to take the edge off.

I want to see Stormi and beg her to forgive me.

I crave a life with her, and I won’t let ideas of her falling in love with someone else enter my mind.

“I brought you back something,” Reagan quips as she pops hard taco shells into the microwave. “I think you’ll like it.”

“Did you score some good weed or something?”

Because I need some.

I need a bunch of fucking things, but I threw them away, always comprehended in the back of my brain how the whole ordeal with Stormi would go—nowhere.

However, being a bastard, I took and took, not giving a damn how much it hurt afterward. Who I impaired and broke because it would’ve been either her or me—and it ended up being both.

I honestly didn’t think she’d fall for me—hell, I wanted her to. The deeper we got into whatever the fuck it was, I wanted my shit reciprocated.

I’d be kidding myself if I said it didn’t stroke my ego that I could make her feel things for me. Not only that, but that she somewhat forgave me for all the shit I put her through.

And once that barrier was broken, Stormi and I busted through the floodgates, and I didn’t look back until I had to.

Then the anonymous text message came in about Montgomery, and I was forced to.

Though Stormi is strong, going through crap no one will ever experience in their lifetime, I still cut deep.

And I’ll be the one left bleeding because no one will ever be her. Nothing will ever come close to filling in the large gap that resides within my heart that I thought only beat for my family.

Reagan scoffs as the microwave beeps for action. “Uh, no, I don’t have the sort of clearance, you do.”

“You should’ve said the word,” I quip, tugging back on my third beer. “I would’ve hooked you up.”

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