Page 125 of Crazy In Love

I wanted to rage and scream and accept that, yep, I’m a nobody, and I belonged nowhere. But no. You followed me. You insisted on driving me. And then you read my mind. Somehow, you knew what I was feeling.

You didn’t even like me, but you made damn sure to point out that what she said was not what she meant. And I don’t know if you know, but to the little girl waiting on her declaration of love: the fact you followed me and drove me home…

Well, that was the same kind of magic I’d been waiting for my whole life.

Which is dumb.

I was reaching. I was convincing myself that it was something it wasn’t.

Thennnnn, we banged.

And then you laid in bed with me and showed me this guy who wasn’t the same guy I thought I knew.

Which was the exact moment the younger, impulsive, desperate-for-love me piped up and said, ‘Hey, let’s not tell anyone about us.’

Because, duh, it was time to sabotage any spark of happiness I might ever experience.

I figured I was doing the right thing. And you agreed so easily. I didn’t want Alana to find out about us because half of me was scared she’d be mad when I inevitably screwed everything up.

And the other, louder, meaner half of me was terrified she would be pissed. She spent ten years crying for you, Chris.

A whole decade, mourning the loss of the love of her life. But also, mourning the brother she no longer had.

Godddd, the pedestal was HIGH! I had no chance of being good enough for you, and I desperately didn’t want her to tell me so.

My heart couldn’t handle it. So I did what I always do, and I sabotaged us before we even got a chance to try something else.

Glancing up when the doors open on the fifty-first floor, I stride forward and type while I walk. Paying attention to no one as I make my way toward Booker’s office.

These texts are starting to drag on, filling the whole screen. Which means your eyes have probably already started glazing over. But I guess I just wanted to say: I love you.

I loved you.

And since we’re on the subject, I want to say a little girl fell in love with the guy who insisted on driving her home that day.

That was the spark that lit this fuse.

But it wasn’t the kind of love that lasts. She was incapable. She was just a child, desperate to be chosen just once in her damn life. And good for her. She held on to that love all the way until midnight last night.

I couldn’t say these things to you while I was in Plainview, because I was working on immaturity and insecurity.

I wanted you to take the leap and speak your feelings first because I was scared to walk out on that ledge alone.

It’s ironic, really, that I would lecture you on comfort, when I was the biggest coward of all. That makes me a hypocrite.

I hit send on that message, too, but when I start typing some more, the speech bubbles on the other side pull me up short.

He’s typing, and holy hell, that nausea I thought I’d escaped comes spilling back as violently as a tidal wave.

Just to clarify: You love(d) me? But you fell out of love with me around midnight last night?

I stop just six feet from Booker’s office and slam my back to the wall, tipping my head up and filling my cheeks with air that escapes on a whistle.

But then my phone vibrates with another message.

What the hell did I do at midnight last night that hurt your feelings? I was in bed, not sleeping, but definitely minding my own business.

How can you blame me for something I had no part in?