Page 135 of Unloved

Something is wrong.

My ears haven’t adjusted to the quiet, and the last song from the club—an acoustic, airy version of flora cash’s “You’re Somebody Else”—is still repeating in my head enough I almost started humming through our trek to the back of the lot.

Until I saw the wild, ragged look in Matt’s eyes when he spun me and lifted me into the car.

“Hey—”

His hands are clammy and shaking as he grasps my waist. I lean back, falling contentedly against the leather backseat. I want to take a minute to appreciate how delicate I feel beneath him, but I can’t. Because Matt looks devastated beneath the huffing breaths and slipping mask.

“Freddy,” I say, even as his mouth presses to mine again, his hand playing along the waistband of my skort, sliding under and making my belly drop pleasantly despite the war in my head.

“Does that feel good, baby?” he asks, his face buried in the crook of my neck. I want to relax beneath him, let his touch carry me away but—this is wrong. Everything about this is wrong.

It feels… fake.

Stop him. He’s not okay. Stop him.

“Freddy—”

He cuts me off with a moan. “Yes, baby. Say my name.”

He trails his fingers down my now-exposed stomach, where he’s pulled the fabric of my shirt up high. My abs clench, his shaking hands fumbling with the fastenings on my high-waisted skort. But his face is pale, eyes red.

“Matt,” I snap, my stomach hurting from the gymnastics of feeling him but not really feelinghim. The mix of desire and worry and every confusing emotion between them is nauseating.

He pauses at hearing his name, darting his eyes to my face, pupils swallowing up all the green. The flickering streetlamp in the half-empty parking lot is the only real light. The orange glow cast upon his skin makes him seem almost ethereal.

Ethereal but broken, like a fallen angel.

There’s a moment then when he hesitates, his eyes slip, his mask falling as he locks his gaze with mine.

But as quickly as his vulnerability is there, it’s gone.

“Let me make you feel good,” Matt says, hands tightening on my hips as he licks his lips and the vulnerability that wasjustthere slips away behind the Freddy mask. “I’m good at that, at least, right?” His voice is ragged, like he’s run a marathon. “So fucking good at it. Let me show you.”

Something happened tonight that made him go back to this. And… I hate it. I want to scream and cry, because I want Matt more than anything, but not like this, never like this.

“Matt, no,” I breathe, heart breaking for him, for the boy beneath the mask who is terrified of getting hurt. “Stop.”

That’s all it takes. His body jolts back, nearly toppling over as he pulls away. Fear and embarrassment race across his face, flushed from the wind or exertion or the raging emotional turmoil—I’m not sure.

He looks almost horrified, hands up in surrender before another heavy gasp escapes from his mouth, like he’s on the verge of hyperventilating.

“I’m— Oh myGod. Rosalie. I’m so sorry. I don’t—”

“Hey,” I whisper, pushing awkwardly off my back as I slide out of the car to walk toward him. He trips again as he tries to put even more distance between us. “Matt—”

“I need—” He looks around desperately, and for a second I think he might run despite being half an hour from campus. “I need to go home. Can we go home?”

Pressure builds behind my eyes and ears, and I blink away the tears. I don’t want to startle or upset him further. I want him to be okay. He looks like he accidentally killed someone, not like he got a little too intense while making out.Something more is wrong.

“Yes. Do you want me to drive?”

“No.” He shakes his head, then dips his chin to his chest and wipes his eyes. “But I don’t think I can,” he whispers, voice small and broken, like a scared child.

I don’t say a word, only walking to stand beside him. I’m careful as I slide my hand into his front pocket for the keys, while I distract him with a soft kiss to his hot cheek.

“Okay, Matt. Just sit up front for a second and I can get us home.”

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