Page 135 of Chaos

I pause, smoothing my clammy palms down the sides of my thighs. My rings catch on my borrowed boxers, then in my tangled hair when I rake my fingers through it, and I laugh because what a ridiculous scenario this is, what a ridiculous sight I must make, pacing and ranting in clothes that don’t fit me, still dripping in my finest jewelry, the make-up I never bothered to take off surely wreaking all kinds of havoc.

I look at Finn and I sober.

“I…” I start, I swallow, I fucking fear the next words out of my mouth. “I have some shit, okay? In my life. Like bad, complicated shit. And it makes me angry which makes me mean, and I know you said you like me mean, but shit, Finn, you don’t actually know that because honestly, I’ve been a fucking angel the past couple of months. And that DUI I told you about, that’s not… well, it is the worst of it, but it’s notit. It’s not my only fuckup and that’s why I’m back here, and I’m trying really hard to not fuck up again, and I don’t think… I don'tknow…”

“If I’m good for you?”

“IfI’mgood foryou, Finn.”

I wince as the words leave my mouth. As they linger heavy in the air, all croaked and pathetic and way too honest. Wiping away their bitter aftertaste with the back of my hand, I force myself to continue. “I think you’re gonna regret it. This. I’m gonna disappoint you, I won’t live up to whatever fairytale romance you’re imagining, and I’m… I’m really fucking scared about what will happen to me when you do because I…”

Fuck. I have to tell him, right? About rehab, about AA. If he knows, then he’ll get it. He’ll understand what I’m trying to say. He’ll see why this is such a bad idea. He’ll know that I am one giant accident waiting to happen,continuallyhappening, and he’ll steer clear of the mess.

My pacing comes to a stop, my fingers linking behind my head, my eyes closed as I whisper another pathetic, honest admission, “This makes me really uncomfortable.”

The bed creaks. When I peek through one eye, I see Finn sitting on the edge, feet planted on the floor, palms braced against his thighs—one patting gently. “C’mere.”

I don’t move. “I don’t really like to be touched.”

His head ticks to one side, an ever-so-slight pull between his brows. “You don’t like when I touch you?”

I pause. Think about it for not very long at all. Slowly admit, “I do.”

That furrowed expression softens. He pats his leg again. “C’mere, baby.”

Baby. Goddammit. Not fucking fair.

I huff and I puff and I take my damn time, but I go. I let him pull me down onto his lap, let him settle me sideways, let him guide my gaze to his with a thumb and a forefinger gentlypinching my chin. “You know, I don’t think you’re meaner to anyone than you are to yourself.”

The need to assure him that I deserve it doesn’t come as easily as it usually does. But it does come, I do insist it quietly, and he insists right back, “I don’t believe that.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you’re a terrible judge of character.”

“Don’t believe that either.”

“I slept with Carl Weber.”

There. That gets him. Clearly strikes fucking horror in his heart the same way it does in mine, and even though it’s exactly what I intended, it’s exactly what I wanted, that grimace still knocks me upside the head a little. “Recently?”

“When I was seventeen.”

Finn blinks. “He’s my age.”

“I know.”

“When you were seventeen, he was twenty-one.”

“I know that too.”

“And you think I’m gonna judgeyouin that situation?”

“I judge me. It’s Carl fucking Weber.”

“You were a kid.”

“I knew what I was doing.”

“I don’t care about Carl.”

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