Page 19 of Obey

Maybe there’s a part of me that still cares about him.

Hell, there’s definitely a part of me that still cares about him.

I know I fucked him over, but I’d been a terrified seventeen-year-old. It’s been eight years since then, and he’s still holding a grudge. If anything, the mellowing out and potential forgiveness I’d hoped for had turned into seething hatred.

It’s my own fucking fault for never visiting.

“Fine,” Knives says, breaking into my spiraling thoughts. He’s still staring at his coffee. “Mugs are in the cabinet next to the sink.”

“Thanks,” I say. I head over to the cabinet, appreciating the kitchen. It’s nicer than mine, with more appliances. I’ve kept everything simple. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to spend money on things I don’t need, but really, I just can’t be bothered to keep more clean than I have to.

Knives has nice plates and cutlery, I discover, whereas my cabinets hold paper plates and my drawers hold plasticware instead.

Not that I even go through those very much.

Usually, I’d doctor up my coffee with sugar and milk, but I feel awkward perusing his kitchen even more than I already have. Black coffee it is, and I soon discover that it’s cold. I take a sip, trying not to grimace.

“You have a nice place,” I say lamely, leaning against the counter.

“Yeah. Managed to find my footing despite all the shit life threw at me,” Knives says. He takes another gulp of his coffee, and I can’t imagine he actually enjoys the flavor of what has to be day-old coffee.

No wonder I hadn’t heard the machine going off.

I don’t know what to say to that, so I take another tiny sip of the coffee before giving up. I don’t want to be rude and just ditch it, but there’s no way I can drink it as-is either. I’m more sure than ever that I’m unwelcome here, and I quietly take the mug over to the sink so I can ditch the coffee and clean it out. “I’m glad,” I tell him. I mean it, too.

“Doesn’t make up for the almost eight years in jail,” Knives says, glaring at me. “You really think we can just small-talk it all away?”

I flinch, washing out the mug and putting it in the dishwasher. “No,” I mumble. “But I don’t… Nayeem, I want to try to… to…”

Move past it, I don’t dare say.

“Fucking stop calling me that!” Knives shouts, slamming his mug into the table. Coffee splashes out, and it’s probably good that it was already cold.

I’m not sure why I’m surprised at his reaction, but it makes me flinch.

“You don’t get to fucking call me that after how you betrayed me! After you fucking left me to get worked over by the cops, after eight fucking years in jail because they tried me as a fucking adult.”

I don’t know what to say to that, either. “I didn’t mean to!” I reply, desperately wanting him to forgive me, to stop treating me like this. “And Christ, Knives, haven’t you spent enough time making me pay for it? All the nasty things you’ve said and done to me, all the times you’ve treated me like shit and I’ve just taken it like some little bitch because I feel guilty! Yes, I should’ve been there, but we were both kids!”

Knives gives me a nasty sneer. “So I should just forgive and forget? Have you forgiven your parents? Have you forgotten about how we grew up?”

My fingers clench into fists, nails digging into my palms. “I don’t know! All right? I don’t know. But I’ll tell you one fucking thing.” I stare at him hard. “I’m done with you treating me like this. Don’t come near me unless it’s for work. Don’t contact me unless it’s for work. No fucking, no interrupting my scenes, no taking me home like you give a fuck about me. None of it. Do you fucking understand me, Knives?”

Knives snarls and stands up. “Then get the fuck out of my apartment. But even if you forget, I’m going to remember that you’re a fucking cowardly traitor. Somebody who’s only out for himself.”

“I’m not the same person anymore!” I shout, but he’s not listening to me.

He’s never going to listen to me.

I turn and walk away, storming toward the door and slamming it open.

“I should have given you more than just one black eye,” Knives shouts as I leave.

I head out, stabbing at my phone as I call for a rideshare so I can go back to get my car. So I can do… something. Anything.

I made one goddamn mistake years ago. Years. And he’s spent the past few months doing everything he can to demean me, to remind me how low I am in his eyes, to ruin every-fucking-thing.

Now I can’t even go back to my favorite club for relief. I can’t call Carl. I don’t have anyone because I’ve left myself so isolated.

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