Page 45 of Deliah
“NO!” I screamed. “You don’t get to ‘come on, babe’ me. You’ve been toying with me for months, Jay. Fucking months. You come and go, hot and cold, like I’m a tap you get to turn on when you’re bored.”
He flinched. “It’s not like that.”
“Oh, isn’t it?” I shouted, pacing now, hands flying. “Then what is it, Jay? Enlighten me! Because I’m either everything to you or I’m nothing, and it changes depending on whether or not you’ve had a wank and a beer!”
“That’s not true.”
“I was loyal to you, you selfish, manipulative little prick! I made excuses for you when you vanished. I swallowed my pride and my fucking worth for you! And for what? So you can act like I’m insane for having feelings?!”
He was quiet now. Jaw clenched.
“Say something!” I yelled, choking on my breath. “Go on, fucking gaslight me again! Tell me I’m dramatic. Tell me I’m imagining it. Go on!”
“Jesus, Deliah, you’re losing it—”
“I already lost it! I lost it every time you walked in here and made me feel like I was finally enough, only to vanish the second I needed more than your dick and your excuses!”
“You know I love you,” he said quietly.
“NO. YOU. DON’T,” I shouted, stabbing the air with every word. “You love control. You love knowing you can fuck me and I’ll still make you coffee in the morning. That’s not love, Jay.”
“You’re being a bitch now.”
“GOOD,” I screamed. “I am a bitch. A bitch who’s finally had enough of being used like a fucking idiot with a heartbeat.”
His mouth twitched. “You’re pushing me.”
“Get out!” I shrieked, shoving him in the chest. “Get the fuck out, Jay! I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want your apologies. I don’t want your fake promises. Just. Fucking. GO.”
He didn’t move.
I shoved him again, harder this time. “LEAVE. I don’t want you. I don’t need you. You don’t get to treat me like shit and expect me to open my legs and forgive you!”
His hands shot out. Grabbed my wrists. Spun me around and slammed me against the wall.
My breath caught. His chest was flush against mine, eyes blazing, hands pinning mine above my head.
“You done now?” he said, voice low, shaking. “You done screaming? Or are you finally ready to admit you still want me?”
“Let me go,” I spat, voice trembling with fury and something else I hated to name.
“Say it,” he whispered. “Say you don’t want me. Say you don’t love me. Look me in the eye and say it.”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came.
“You can’t,” he growled. “You don’t want me to leave. Because you still fucking love me.”
“No,” I whispered, even as my thighs squeezed together. “I hate you.”
“You hate how much you want me,” he said, pressing his forehead to mine. “You hate that no one gets you like I do.”
I was shaking now. Crying. Fury and ache colliding in my veins. His mouth crushed mine. And I kissed him back like I was trying to erase myself. Fighting. Clawing. Biting his lip. Hating every second I needed. He grabbed my thighs, lifting me, slamming me back against the wall with a groan.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
I didn’t. I couldn’t. We fucked like enemies who didn’t know how to surrender; maybe, if we tore into each other hard enough, something might finally make sense. And after? I felt sick.
The next day, I told myself it was closure. A last goodbye. But when he showed up again that night with Chinese food and that stupid smile… I let him in. And then I let him stay. I hate even writing that—it makes me feel pathetic. But he’d twisted something in me, carved out my common sense, and replaced it with need. By then, I didn’t know who I was without him.
