Page 40 of Rectify

Not knowing how to navigate my answer, I give him half-truths. “It wasn’t about what I did or did not feel for you.” Sadness creeps into my voice as I clarify. “It was how that one action changedeverything.”

“So, which one is it? You’re upset it happened? Or you’re upset over the consequences?”

“Does it matter? They're the same thing?”

“Not even close,” he says, dismissively. “I may have taken something I knew I didn’t deserve, but anything that happened after, besides those fuckwit friends of yours knowing I held the upper hand, wasn’t my fault.”

I wince at his harsh tone, and I don't know if it's because his insult offended me or because he’s telling the truth.

“So my feelings didn’t matter?”

“If they didn't matter, I wouldn't be here trying to apologise for hurting them.” I still at his honesty, as he looks at me pensively deciding whether to continue. He exhales loudly, scrubbing his hands over his face. “How did you think it would end, Sasha?” He leans as far forward as his body allows, holding my watery gaze. “You were always going to go back to them. I just made it happen sooner.”

Feeling every bit my insecure self, I push him for more, something to make the uncertainty go away. “Don’t act like you wanted me.”

“Wanted you? Pretty Girl, any more and I would’ve let myself fall in love with you.”

I drop my chin to my chest, refusing to let him see the impact of his confession. It’s impossible to process, even more impossible to believe.

“You’re a liar,” I say, my voice just above a whisper.

The sounds of someone shuffling hint that he’s no longer sitting on the floor. A body pressing up to my side confirms my suspicions.

Too big for the small space, our backs try and share the narrow piece of wood. It’s uncomfortable, but not enough to move. His need to be close reflecting that of my own.

“It would’ve never worked between us.”

“You blew me off like I was nothing more than dirt on your shoe.” I keep my head down, and my eyes trained on the way our legs lay side by side. I can’t look at him. Not when I’m about to voice how deep my self-doubt runs. “I thought we were friends. I told you how worthless I felt in comparison to Hendrix, and you used it against me.” My voice is tearful as I rub the heel of my hand over my sore chest. “If the broken girl wasn't enough for the broken boy, how could she ever be of worth to someone else?”

The skewed way that I see myself, sits heavy between us. I've carried this heartache into every piece of adulthood, and it has left nothing unscathed.

“You were going to break my heart,” he whispers, unexpectedly.

With tears I finally let run free, I turn to him. His crystal blue eyes look as desolate as this situation feels.

“So, that was a good enough reason to hurt me first?”

“No.” Reaching for my hand, he curls his around mine. His gaze holds my attention, conviction coating every word. “It was a good enough reason to save myself.”

It’s a revelation that resonates with me. Too well.

It’s been one of the few recurring instigators of my many bad decisions. While it almost always appears selfish to anyone who isn’t in my head, it often feels like a necessity in mine. A survival mechanism. A way to get through the endless cycle of undeservingness.

People continuously disregard your teenage years. Say you're too young for it to matter, that it doesn't affect your future, and tell you that you can always come back from your mistakes. Sitting here with bleeding hearts, we’re both living proof that it’s a naive way of thinking.

Anyone who grew up emotionally unmarked will never know how lucky they are to never feel the sting of life so early. To never have to chase your tail, or beg for redemption. That’s a luxury I’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing.

We all have scars that take on a life of their own. Their own memories, their own reminders and a distinct type of pain that can take you back to that very moment in one single breath.

As Jay continues to look at me with such earnest emotion, and we reopen old wounds together, I realise there’s only one way I want to move on from this.

Bringing our hands to my mouth, I surprise him and kiss each of his fingers.

Not wanting to be without even the simplest touch, I keep hold of him, as I rise to my knees.

As gracefully as I can, I hook one leg over his, until I'm kneeling in front of him.

He cranes his neck up to look at me, and I catch his gaze.

---