Page 85 of Lovesick
Shit. Wrong thing to say.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “No, I know. It’s not that. I just meant?—”
Merit dodges our mess and bends forward to grab her underwear. “You know what? Maybe I should get back home before my parents notice.”
I was just worried about her. I’m allowed to worry, aren’t I?Should I have not said anything? And then seem like an asshole who doesn’t care about her health?
She starts to get dressed before I can say anything, angrily pulling on her thong and then hop-stepping into her sweatpants. She doesn’t even look at me. In fact, after she dons her shirt and refuses my hoodie, she waits for me outside because she can’t stand to be within the same five square feet of me. If I wasn’t her ride and it wasn’t raining, she’d probably walk all the way home.
I throw my head back with a groan.
What have I just done?
23
I WANTED A DADDY, NOT A DAD
MERIT
“He saidwhat?”
“I know, right? It’s like he thinks he broke me with his dick or something,” I scoff, clutching my green tea and mirroring Irelyn’s steps as we traipse slowly across campus. I can’t really walk today due to…you know.
Minnesota University has always had a collegiate gothic style of architecture to it. Towering stone buildings sprawl over acres of ancient land, often crafted alongside pointed arches, intricately carved tracery, and spires that attach to ivy-flocked crenellated parapets. Most of these structures have been here since the 1900s. There’s nothing modern about this campus, and I can see why the scenery appeals to so many students. Some of the smaller classrooms are fashioned from brick, with the same steep-gabled bay windows and sophisticated buttressing.
The atmosphere is surprisingly not as sepulchral as I thought it would be. The pale sun dozes off in a bed of white, cotton clouds, splicing goldenrod rays through the overhanging branches of eastern hemlocks. The scent of terpenes suffuses the wintry air, and carapaces of pinecones crunch underneathmy suede boots. We let a congregation of band kids beetle to their next class.
“But the sex was good?” Irelyn asks, her eyes shaded by a pair of sunglasses to help with her hangover. She clenches a Styrofoam cup of coffee between her fingers.
Unfortunately, my backlog of that night isoverflowingwith X-rated memories that certify her suspicion. The way Crew shunted into me with his abnormally large cock; the way he took his sweet, torturous time to pleasure every oversensitive nerve; the way he forced me to look at him so he could seeexactlyhow he was unraveling me.
I absentmindedly stab my nails into my plastic cup, feeling the material bend underneath my grip. “Yeah, it was good. Ugh. It was better than good, Irelyn. It was the best sex I’ve ever had.”
“To be fair, you haven’t had sex withthatmany people.”
We continue to jockey through the main quad, passing by the occasional student studying on a bench, running to their class like their life depends on it, or having a public meltdown in broad daylight.
The whole ride back from the rink was quiet. Crew apologized, but I didn’t want to listen. How could he insinuate that my heart would wear out after a trip to pound town? It’s embarrassing. I told him I didn’t want to be treated like I was breakable, and he clearly didn’t have that mindset during the actual deed, so why, pray tell, did shit hit the fan afterwards? Things were good.Wewere good. Now I scorn Crew’s stupid—but very skilled—penis.
Irelyn is my voice of reason, as usual. “Did you ever consider that maybe he was just worried? That he didn’t mean to upset you?”
My heart pitches into my throat, and anger repurposes into stomach-twisting guilt. “I know he didn’t mean it like that, but…”
“But it still hurt to hear,” she finishes.
“The real Crew would’ve mounted me on his dick and made me cry uncle.”
She chuckles, taking a swig of her pick-me-up. “Romantic.”
“It just makes me reconsider what a relationship with him would be like,” I admit with a sigh, my wayward gaze coasting over the three o’clock rush, and a part of me contemplates if it would be less painful to be run over by a bicyclist.
Crew is the only person I can envision myself with. He’s the only person Iwantto be with. I’m not good with relationships. There’s a reason I’ve become more independent since my ex—I don’t work well with others, and I’ve grown wary of trusting that the people closest to me won’t walk out of my life the minute trouble comes knocking.
“What do you mean?” my best friend questions, a frown toying with her peachy lips.
Even in the midst of a hangover, she still has a full face of makeup on, looking as effortlessly ethereal as she always does. Irelyn St. Clair doesn’t live her life quietly. She’s the center of everyone’s attention. It’s impossible not to be mesmerized by her.
“What if this is a red flag? He might’ve promised not to fret over me, but who knows if that’ll change down the road. What if my health dips? I don’t want a caretaker—I want apartner.”
