Page 45 of At My Worst

“This is different,” she says, looking at the flames.

“Different, how?”

“Sex is easy. You fuck and connect on a sexual level, but sitting here with you like this, it is just different,” she says softly.

“What happened to you?” I ask, not knowing if I am quite ready for the answer but needing her to give me something, anything, to help me understand her better.

“I don’t know how to answer that question,” she admits.

I don’t respond. Instead, I tighten my arms around her and gently kiss her cheek. There is no rush. She can take her time; even if she chooses not to answer, it is okay. The point was that I needed to let her know that I care about her and what has happened to her.

“My ex and I never were good together,” I whisper as I continue to rest my chin on her shoulder, staring into the flames.

My heart races against her back as I get ready to say my next words. “I lied to myself, telling myself that she loved me the way I loved her, but it was never true,” I confess in a low, shaky voice.

“I’m sorry.”

“She was only faithful at the beginning. Once she knew she had me, then she cheated, partied, and did whatever she wanted. She knew I wasn’t going anywhere. She was my lifeline then,” I confess in a cold and distant voice. I thought she was my lifeline, but she was the one killing me slowly.

“Why are you telling me this?” She asks.

I take a deep breath. “Partly because I can’t expect you to answer my questions if I’m not able to be open with you. And because I want you to know that when I ask you about you, I actually want to know. I want to know all of it, even the unhinged, sad parts. I want all of it because I want all of you,” I confirm for her.

Words might not mean as much to her, but I need to say them out loud. I need to tell her what has been knocking around inside my head for the past few weeks, and I have held myself back from saying it, but I can’t hold back anymore.

I don’t care how long we have known each other. I can give two shits what people say or think; they don’t matter. The only thing that matters is that she is here with me.

“Why?”

“Why what?” I ask as she gets up from my lap. She turns around, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.

“Why can’t you just let us be? Why…why do you have to know my past?” she asks.

Her anxiety is starting to come to the surface, and the way she says the word why tells me she is uncomfortable with this, with me. But I can’t stop myself. I am not going to let her push me away. Not going to fucking happen.

She has pushed me, and now it is time I fucking push her.

“Because I care about you,” I say, standing up from the chair.

“Alexander, you don’t want the answers to your questions,” she says, looking at me.

“Don’t tell me what I want, Bianca,” I say calmly.

“You don’t want me. You want the idea of me,” she says sadly as she tightens her arms around her stomach and looks at the ground.

“Where the fuck did that come from?” I ask, feeling my heart stop with her words.

“It’s true,” she says, still not looking at me.

“The fuck it is, Bianca,” I grind out.

She slowly starts to turn away from me, but fuck that, fuck this. I stand up, walk into her, and grab her by the throat, forcing her to look at me.

I watch the tears roll down her face. I lift my free hand and gently wipe them away. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

“What happened to you?” I ask again.

She opens her eyes, and I see the sadness, fear, confusion, and rage—all of it consuming and tearing her apart inside.

---