His eyes flash, more green than brown, and he lunges toward me. I’m boxed in between him and the piece of reliable metal he bought with Millie in mind. “Once more, in case you weren’t listening. You’re better off without me. That’ll sink into your thick skull soon enough. Until then, comfort your daughter and forget about cursing me.”
“Who the fuck do you—”
He slams his lips over mine, effectively cutting off my rant. The kiss isn’t a gentle show of affection. It’s a brand, possessive and meant to leave a mark. We bite and hiss and lash. Everything we can’t say gets poured into the balloon of pressure expanding between us. Soon we’ll implode and be left with nothing but a fuzzy memory. Crawford hauls me closer, his grip on my hip punishing. This feels far too familiar, yet I can’t pull away.
I sizzle against him, a live wire sparking in a storm. His palm spans over the curves of my ass and presses me against his arousal. The move is fueled by testosterone and some bogus sense of claiming, but I’m warped just enough to let it go. Any point of contact we share is searing hot and frying me on the spot. I’m burning with a lethal fever after mere seconds.
Crawford wrenches his mouth away with a snarl. I seethe at him and smirk at the trickle of blood from his bottom lip. Serves him right for being a jackass. He wipes at the superficial wound.
I hide the tears streaking my cheeks by turning away. This jerk doesn’t deserve my pain. “Stay away from us, Ford.”
His chuckle is darker than the midnight sky. “If I recall correctly, you sought me out after our last fight.”
“Well, I won’t be making that mistake again. Fool me twice and I’m the idiot. Fingers crossed we never see you again.” I hold up my hand in a mock wave.
When I glance over my shoulder, his smirk is hollow. “For your sake, I hope history doesn’t repeat itself. You can only cut our ties so many times before this looks desperate.”
“I’m not the one clinging to the past and allowing my fears to dictate my future.”
He holds up his arms, the sign of surrender as worthless as him. “And on that note, take care of yourself. Tell Millie I say goodbye.”
“Tell her yourself, Crawford.” My laugh is frail enough for the wind to sweep the sound away. “A real man faces his own demons.”
Healing Hug #25: There is no form of comfort strong enough to fix a fool.
The post-Keegan version of myself is by far the worst. I’m almost a week in, and my grasp on normalcy is skewed as fuck. Considering I’ve spent the majority of my years in solitude, returning to the grind should’ve been a cinch. I can attest to the opposite being true. My routine is out of whack and nothing makes sense. There’s an oozing gash across my heart that will never heal.
So, yeah. That’s the latest on me.
It’s safe to confirm that adjusting to life without them hasn’t been successful. By this point, even the oil-splatter writing on the chipping wall is legible. I’m utterly screwed.
Gasoline and dust clog my lungs, along with the desperation hanging heavy in the air. I imagine inhaling pineapples and ocean kisses and tropical paradise. This is tribulation of the most ruthless, self-destructive variety. Torturing myself with the memory of her scent is another cruel punishment. I’m on a narrow, icy slope without a pickaxe.
The shop is silent, yet I picture Millie racing around with Elsa and Patch. Her peal of giggling laughter wages a war on my echoing ears. Because in reality, I’m alone. A glance at my phone reveals no calls or texts. The damn device mocks me with silence. Nothing speaks to me, not even the wind. The sun doesn’t shine on my piece of property. Those blinding rays are reserved for those who appreciate the warm comfort. Even Patch is ignoring me.
If I’ve learned anything, it’s that Keegan and Millie are irreplaceable. Those two own my battered, black heart. Because of them, I had a future to strive for. More than that, I wanted to be ambitious and aim higher. That’s all shot to shit now. Bold hues of vitality left with their vibrant influences. Now that they’re gone, my surroundings have returned to stained concrete, gray and ugly.
Keegan’s parting words are haunting me. I’m a coward for running away, especially for leaving Millie without saying goodbye, but my plans were set with them in mind. No matter what she thinks, I care about them. That’s why I’m choosing to suffer, sentencing myself to an existence of strictly surviving. I scoff at my internal drama.
Such a pathetic fucking martyr.
The wrench I’m holding slips and drops onto the knuckles of my toes. Even through the thick leather of my boots, a blast of pain explodes instantly. “Son of a bitch damned to hell. Mother fucking piece of shit.”
Another colorful rainbow of curses flings off my tongue as I hop on one foot. I can’t even do my damn job without causing damage. The intense throbbing settles into a pulsing ache. That offensive tool gleams under the fluorescent spotlights and I whip it outside in a boomerang arch. I toss a handful of discarded clamps into the box, metal clanging against wood with a dull thud. The noise matches the listless beat inside of me. Each moment pumps slower than the last. I’m stuck in quicksand and only wasting energy by struggling. My injury is already forgotten as familiar regret seeps in. The words spin and spin until I can’t ignore them.
Fuck, what did I do?
A similar version of the same question has been plaguing me for days. I could pull my head out of my ass. We can clean up
