Page 127 of Maybe You

I’m also helpless and hurt and I don’t know what to do.

I toe my sneakers off, and they slam against the wall as I kick them away from me. It’s childish behavior, but I can’t seem to stop, so inanimate objects will suffer and that’s just how it’s going to be.

There’s something cathartic about being angry. Maybe because I don’t have to think. Because when I start to think… Well, there’s nothing good there.

It’s not a good sign when you tell somebody you love them, and in return, they completely lose their shit.

In the kitchen, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and slam that door shut, too.

Then I lean my ass against the counter and unscrew the cap with more aggression than strictly necessary.

I’m trying to keep the momentum, because with anger comes a shitload of determination, and that’s exactly what I need right now. I’m not even that tempted to go to bed, even if I’ve had a long day, because there’s a part of me that’s scared I’ll wake up the next day and cry, instead of being angry and determined, and I need to be angry and determined.

When I’m angry and determined it feels like there’s a way out. Lose that, and you’re screwed. Lose that, and you’ll give up.

It’s too bad I don’t have anywhere to direct all this attitude. The logical direction—Sutton—is out of the question for now. I can’t just march into his apartment and tell him he has to love me back. So for now, I’ve resorted to keeping myself busy to postpone whatever fallout is sure to follow Sutton.

I think it’s called denial.

If I don’t face or process what happened, it didn’t.

And then there’s still hope.

I have a few weeks to go before I can start my internship, which will swallow a sizable chunk of my day, so until then, I have to keep moving. Mindlessly. With just one goal. Do not, under any circumstances, stop to think.

As a result, the house has been cleaned top to bottom multiple times, including the windows, the stoop outside, and the sidewalk in front of Remy’s house. I’ve lost to Theo in every video game he owns. I’ve painted the walls in the kitchen and the living room and am eyeing the bedrooms next.

I should be exhausted, but I still can’t seem to fall asleep at night.

It’s just that there’s this persistent ache in my chest, and it doesn’t go away no matter what I do.

I slam the bottle down and clutch the edges of the counter while I hang my head and close my eyes.

Shut up! I tell my brain. Shut up, shut up, shut up!

“Is that a temper tantrum?”

I snap my head up at Remy’s voice. He’s standing in the doorway, dressed in his usual battered pair of khakis and one of those flannel shirts he likes so much.

“More or less.” I straighten my back and eye him warily. “Why are you still up?”

“I’d be very surprised if anybody’s managing to sleep through the racket you’re creating right now.” He steps into the kitchen, flicks on the coffeemaker, and puts a cup underneath it. A minute later, he shuffles to the table and takes a seat.

“That’ll keep you up all night,” I say with a nod toward the cup.

He holds my gaze pointedly and takes a long sip.

“I’m retired, kid. I can do whatever the hell I want with my time.”

I roll my eyes and salute him.

He takes another sip.

“You’ve been off lately,” he says.

“Have I?”

He sends me a look that says ‘Don’t even’ more effectively than he could with words.

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