Page 64 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

I touch my lips with my hand and drop it to my lap. “What are you saying, Milo?”

“It’s like you said. I’m the guy who thinks things through, remember? The guy who looks at shit from every angle before taking the damn leap. It’s why I couldn’t date you. Why I said no. You would’ve gotten bored.”

“That isn’t fair.”

“You like the high,” he continues. “And maybe now, you’ll settle down because we have a kid together, but is it what you really want? What you wouldstillhave wanted if we didn’t have a kid together? If you weren’t forced to be tied to me forever?”

“Milo, I wanted you before I found out I was pregnant. Why I told you––”

“You couldn’t do this anymore,” he quotes as if my words have haunted him the same way his words have haunted me. Putting a few more inches of distance between us, he leans his shoulder against the driver’s side window and scrubs his hand over his face. Looking defeated. And tired. Just like me.

“I meant sleeping withbothof you,” I explain, exhausted. “I only wantedyou…”

“But for how long, Mads? Huh?”

“What?”

“How long would you have wanted me? A day? A week? A month? You always jump without looking.”

“Yeah. I know. And trust me. I felt the sting of hitting the ground when I tried to tell you how I felt, and you lashed out, basically calling me a whore who would never have a real relationship with anyone because all I was looking for was a way to get off,” I spit, still hurting from when we first broke up.

“We should get back,” he murmurs.

“Being withyouis all I wanted.”

“In the moment, sure.” His voice is numb. Cold.

“And what about now?” I demand. “Did our kiss prove to you I still want you, or did I not moan enough for your liking, huh? You know, since apparently, all I’m looking for is a way to get off.”

“We should get back.”

“You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to pretend you’re the victim. You don’t get to say I’m the one who hurt you when you’re the one who didn’t think I was worth the risk of putting your heart on the line. This is exactly what I was talking about, Milo. There’s no crystal ball––”

“We should get back,” he repeats, his voice lacking any emotion at all, while I, on the other hand, am boiling.

Like sand, I watch the Milo I fell in love with slip through my fingers once more, replaced with the same cold, indifferent Milo I’ve grown accustomed to as he pulls back onto the road.

Tucking my hands beneath my thighs, I rest my head against the window as the sun dips beneath the horizon. It’s been a long-ass day. And I’m exhausted—both emotionally and physically.

I don’t know what else I can do.

But this? These assumptions? They burn.Bad.

“You don’t get to tell me what I want,” I whisper. Still flustered. Still hurting. “You don’t get to act like you know me better than I know myself, and you don’t get to assume you knew what I was thinking back then or what I’m feeling now.”

“I know you, Mads.”

“I know you too. And I know you feel like no one can love you unconditionally because your parents didn’t.”

“Don’t go there.”

“But it’s all on them, Milo,” I argue, disregarding his warning. “Not me. We could’ve had something great.”

“Until you got bored, Mads. It would’ve been great until you got bored with playing house and wanted to move on. I didn’t need a crystal ball to see it.”

“You’re assuming––”

“I’m not assuming shit. What have you ever committed to? Huh, Mads? Nothing. You do whatever the hell you want, whenever the hell you want to do it until you get bored or shit gets real. That’s your M.O. But you’ll have to cut me a little slack for not wanting to be your plaything.”

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