Page 47 of Deep In Love
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
He nods, clicking his tongue. “I didn’t think so.”
My heart squeezes as the room falls quiet.
“I’m tired,” he says, fluffing the pillow wall and sliding into bed. My body is rigid and disconnected from my brain as I mindlesslyshuffle around the room. Mateo clicks the light off, and I slip into my pajamas, emotion clogging my throat.
“Do you want to watch TikToks?” I ask in the darkness, feeling bold enough to speak.
We’ve watched them together every night since we arrived, and right now, when my emotions are volatile, I need a sense of normalcy.
“Not tonight.” He pushes against the pillows, securing them, and then rolls to face his back to me. His breathing evens out while I stare up at the ceiling.
The blatant dismissal strikes like a barb to the heart.
The darkness consumes me, letting every awful, self-deprecating thought creep in until I’m swimming in reasons why he hates me. Why I’m not good enough and never will be. Why I’m unlovable.
Tears track down my cheeks, soaking the pillow. And on soft feet, I slip out of bed, snagging a sweatshirt and heading to one of the private office spaces. The FaceTime ringtone fills the air while I swipe away the tears, the only evidence I’m impacted by Mateo’s behavior, that I’mhurt.
I know what’s happening, why I feel this way, but I can’t say the words out loud and make it real.
It’s one a.m. on the East Coast, but I pray Amy is awake, because right now I need my best friend. I need to hear her voice, and I wish I didn’t depend on her so much, but I need her to help me work through my muddled thoughts.
I’ve always put too much of my emotional baggage on Amy’s shoulders, but I can’t always work through it on my own without shutting down.
Amy’s face pops onto the screen, her pink hair fanned out on a pillow. “What’s up, Charles?”
A sob rips from my chest at her familiar smile, and the signal between my brain and mouth disconnects as everything I’m feeling bubbles to the surface.
“I think—and Mateo. Well, the thing is—he’s upset, but I don’t know why, and now my brain is scrambled eggs because I don’t know how I feel or how he feels…”
The words are a string of incoherent nonsense.
I have no idea how to arrange my thoughts. Everything between Mateo and me before this trip was black and white. He was the annoying thorn in my side, put into a definable box, but now everything is gray.
Uncovering this new side of him—the version that leaves chocolate and touches my scars like they’re special to him—is a discovery akin to people in the 1600s learning Earth is neither flat nor the center of the universe.
Life-altering.
“Are you high?” Amy sits up, a blanket falling off her chest until I’m eye to eye with her pierced nipples. “I didn’t understand a single word you just said.”
I’m unfazed by her nudity. After a night of pounding back wine coolers and watching true-crime documentaries, we decided we needed to know what the other’s boobs looked like in case it was the only way to identify our bodies after a gruesome murder.
A large hand moves into view of the camera, covering both of her breasts, and a smug smile blooms on her face.
“Ames…are you with a man right now?”
A deep, very British accent says, “As nice as it is to see you again, Charlie, please get to the point so she can get back to the man lying in her bed.”
For a split second, my predicament fades away as I squeal, “Oliver?”
Amy nods, her eyebrows wiggling, before shifting to Oliver, who, after a moment of silence, releases a groan not meant for my ears.
Gross.
“Mateo isn’t the person I thought he was, and now my brain is freaking out because he is actually kind and thoughtful and attractive, and for years, I thought he was this big, cocky asshole, but he’s not the asshole.” I pause before admitting what is an incredibly difficult pill to swallow. “I am.”
The words whoosh out on a breath, and the admission loosens a kernel of guilt in my chest.
