Page 27 of Semi Sweet
I meant for it to be one kiss–
It turned out to be insane.
I'd be lying if I said I regretted it
But I don't want to cause you pain.
I didn't want to stop
But I ain't no misogynist freak.
I still want to play this game with you
Until someday we can speak.
It's up to you.
If it's all too much,
We can stop, it can be over,
Back to sarcasm, brief meetings, and such.
This isn't nice
But I'm going to say it anyway:
This situation stinks.
I can't stand your fiancé.
No pressure,
Just stating a fact.
Wish I could go back in time,
Beat him with charm and tact.
Instead I'll remember
And think of what could be.
I hope you keep playing.
It would mean the world to me.
I reread the poem several times. It was not what I expected. He hadn't used the word love at all, but he'd still said things that brought me right back to the gentleness of his first kiss and all that came after. He hadn't said he was going to tell Evan or that he never wanted to do this again–in fact, he had left me to be the one to make the decision.
Evan. What was I going to do about Evan? Telling him what happened would mean being the ultimate traitor, just like Meg and Ariana liked to paint me to be. He would stop the parties and he'd never leave town again. Would he grill everyone? Would he find the identity of my admirer before I did? I shuddered at the thought.
If I didn't tell him and if by some freak chance the marks on my body faded away in time, I'd be dishonest–adulterous to a point.So just break up with him, I tried to will myself. But the very idea almost took my breath away. Not necessarily because I couldn't bear to lose him, but because I'd have no job, no place to live, and no one in my corner. I cursed myself for being so impulsive. Why couldn't I just control myself? There were ways to keep it at bay, but as I ripped a piece of paper from one of my notebooks, I knew I couldn't completely stop it. I wouldn't be myself otherwise.
I looked over at the bakery one more time. Max still boxed cookies and muffins and Sean was still in the back. Maybe when Beth finally arrived, she could deliver the note I was about to write. Yup, not a poem, but a note.
Dear Cupcake/Baked Good Conspiracy Man,
How are you able to assemble rhymes that make sense and make my heart hurt? I'm so hungover I can barely see straight. Thus the note instead of the usual reply.
