Page 139 of Hate Me Like You Mean It

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t lift his chin or look at me.

He hadn’t been able to meet my eyes since we’d left the hospital parking lot. We’d driven to my place in dense silence, and he hadn’t exited the car until I’d explicitly asked him to come up.

Now he was sitting on my couch, head hung, waiting for me to do the inevitable.

I scootched forward on the coffee table, my knees tucked comfortably between his as I gently pressed the ice pack to his jaw again. “Should we go visit Rosie tomorrow? The weather’s supposed to cool down a bit; I wouldn’t mind taking her for a walk down by the lake.”

That didn’t work either.

If anything, his head dipped even lower, which meant my arm had to bend at a somewhat awkward angle to keep the ice where it was. I sighed, but just as I was about to let my hand drop, I felt it.

At first, I thought it was from the melting frost coating the ice pack. My palm was already wet, so I had no reason to question the source. My hesitation was pure instinct.

I remained still, a heaviness settling deep in my chest. Without a word, I placed the ice pack on the table and wiped my palm over my sweatpants. The best thing to do in this instance was to leave him alone, give him his space. I knew him well enough to understand he’d consider it a mercy.

Sure enough, he let out a relieved breath when I stood up.

Had I been a better, more considerate person, I’d have shown him the mercy and privacy he so clearly wanted. But I wasn’t. I was selfish. Spoiled. And unreasonably stubborn.

So, instead, I slid my arms over his shoulders and gently settled on his lap. He stiffened, refusing to reciprocate the touch, because it wasn’t what he wanted.

He didn’t want me to reach for him, slip my palm over his cheek, and gingerly guide his face toward me. He loathed every second of it. His muscles were tense under my touch, his wet lashes cast downward, his jaw set. He continued to keep his hands to himself.

But I was too selfish a person to stop. Vile and self-centered as he’d once called me. And as far as I was concerned, this, like everything else, was about me. So I leaned forward and brushed a small kiss over his cheek, because I wanted to, and I knew it would make me feel better.

I might as well have spat on him.

His eyes shut, his throat working harder, brows pulled together in full concentration. One lone tear managed to squeeze through the tight vise of his self-control, and I didn’t think he’d ever hated himself more.

I’d have left him alone then, if only I weren’t such a terrible human being. Instead, I brushed the tear away with my thumb. Pressed my lips over that same spot.

“Alice.” His voice cracked over the plea. “Don’t. Please.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“What?” I swiped away another tear. It was impressive how the two had managed to escape. I didn’t think his eyelids could squeeze any tighter. I leaned in to kiss one of them. Selfishly. “You wanna break up?”

In response, he made the ultimate sacrifice and opened his eyes just to glare at me.

I smiled back. “Hi.”

“If you think this is making me feel better, it’s not.”

“I don’t think that,” I assured him. “It’s makingmefeel better, though, and that’s really the only thing that matters.”

“Not funny.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.”

His jaw strained, his glare turning lethal as another tear streamed down his perfect face. Of course, he was a pretty crier. How very irksome of him. “You don’t need to do all this. I’d rather you rip it off like a Band-Aid.”

“That would be the least painful way to go about it,” I agreed. “But the timing isn’t great, so we’ll need to hold off for a bit.”

His forehead pinched. “What?”

“I did a thing.”