Page 2 of Harmonious Hearts (Disaster Bi Design #1)

Looking around the crowded room, it’s easy to see just how much that goofy motherfucker is adored. At least fifty people are packed into Mitch’s two-bedroom apartment, each bringing enough booze and snacks to overflow every available surface.

Everyone around me is laughing, drinking, dancing, and having a good time celebrating Mitch…so why am I tucked into the corner of his living room, nursing a hard apple cider and watching him be all cutesy with Ian in the kitchen?

At first glance, they look like friends. Best friends, effortlessly playing off each other’s energy and goofing off about whatever stupid shit guys are into. However, the longer I stare, the more I notice how their fingers brush against each other for a little too long. The way Mitch leans into Ian’s ear a little too close. Even best friends don’t breathe sweet nothings down each other’s necks, whispering dirty secrets and laughing at every inside joke I’m not a part of.

Above all, it’s the way they eye fuck each other when there’s a lull in conversation that makes my skin crawl. Not because I think it’s wrong or because I’m mad that it’s happening, per se, but because they make it look so effortless.

How the fuck do I compete with effortless?

Fuuuuck , I inwardly sigh. Why is this weighing so heavily on me? Why do I even care? I’ve worked entirely too hard through sheer will and determination to not care about anyone, for some guy to ruin it all in six months. Who am I kidding. Mitch stopped being some guy quite some time ago.

Not so deep down, I know I deserve to have their affection rubbed in my face. I’m not the easiest person to tear down, but I never expected Mitch to be so purposefully cruel. At least I came to the party. The least he could do is not ignore the shit out of me while being so far up Ian’s ass in spiting distance. I expect to be fucked up behind closed doors when I’m on my knees begging for it, not laid out with my emotions on the brink of exposure.

The beast he’s helped me cage over the last few months gnaws at my insides as the realization of how royally I fucked up hits me like a punch to the gut. Watching the two of them from across the room makes me want to vomit the guilt festering in the pit of my stomach all over the worn beige carpet of Mitch’s living room. Clearly, I’m not cut out for this fuck buddy bullshit.

In a failed attempt to center myself, I exhale the entirety of my lungs in one quick huff. How am I even supposed to approach this? It’s not like I have a valid reason to feel this way. I can’t be mad at Mitch for fucking someone else when we made it very clear we aren’t exclusive.

Fuck buddies. That’s all that we are. How could I be so needy to think we could possibly be anything more? Even I can admit that Ian is perfect for him. Ian has a habit of putting Mr. Rogers to shame. He’s considerate, compassionate, funny, and always has a positive outlook on absolutely everything, and I can’t fucking stand him.

His overwhelming optimism is the polar opposite of the pessimistic fortitude I’ve built around myself over a lifetime. As hard as I’ve tried to tolerate Ian, for Mitch’s sake, something about his glass-half-full mentality always seems to piss me off.

It’s not exactly jealousy, either. Not in the way most might think. As hard as it is to admit, if I were to be stripped of my flesh, you could read the etchings of parental abandonment on my bones. After a life spent without a mother and competing with my stepmother for my father’s attention, Ian is now another person I have to compete with for the attention of someone I care about.

Not that it’s ever been a real competition, anyway.

Not with Ian.

Not with my stepmother.

I could never seem to compete with a woman who would throw herself at my father's feet whenever I needed him. No matter what I had to offer—honor roll, recitals, graduations, heartbreak…my stepmother always won his attention, and I was always alone.

So, of course, I move halfway across the country and find myself wrapped up in yet another fucking competition. This time, with a man everyone around me sees as a beacon of light in a sick dark world, but that’s not how Ian shines on me .

For me, Ian's light isn’t a source of comfort like a warm ray of sunshine on my skin. It’s a scorching fire hot enough to burn everything I am to the ground, leaving nothing but ash.

That’s how I feel around Ian Summers.

Ash.

A pile of burnt nothingness.

Ian is the personification of all the happiness I never got the chance to experience in my life. He’s bursting at the seams with the light from every moment I was denied a chance to shine, and with every glance in my direction, he’s shoving it all down my throat at once, making me feel both cared for and supremely inadequate.

Every time I look at him, it feels like he’s poking at my shell to get a rise out of me. A fuck you gesture woven into every joke, every laugh, every wink. I hate him for it, and I hate myself more for putting myself in the position to be so fucking bothered by it.

I don’t think Ian hates me. I don’t think Ian hates anyone, but his thousand-watt smile is different when it’s aimed at me. If there is anything in this world that Ian hates, it’s probably me. The angry bitch from work who’s fucking his best friend. Maybe we can bond over how much I hate myself.