Page 87 of Mr. Brightside

“Wait, what?” He closes the space between us and tries to wrap me in his arms. I spin out of his hold and take two measured steps back.

“Let me go,” I choke out, turning my head in shame.

He doesn’t respond. He just comes at me again with open arms.

“Cory! Stop!” I holler, pulling out of his hold and crossing my arms over my chest to fend off any other attempts. This isn’t some kumbaya moment where we’re just going to hug it out and everything is going to get better.

“No, Jake! I’m not going to stop. Not until you let me in and let me help you!”

And there’s the rub.

I can’t let him in.

Not now.

Not when it comes to this.

His arms are still outstretched, an invitation I ache to accept. What I wouldn’t give to let him hold me right now. But I can’t. If I let him get a grasp on me again, I’ll admit everything. And right now, I need to go.

“Jake, look at me,” he demands with an urgency I’ve never heard from him. “Promise me you won’t engage with him or reveal your identity.”

There’s a part of me that wants to get wrapped up in his protectiveness. But I tell that part to sit down and shut up. I don’t have time for those kinds of feelings tonight.

I shake my head and steel my expression. “I can’t promise you that. I’ve gotta go.”

He reaches for me, but I shrug him off.

He moves in front of me, but I sidestep and evade him.

“Don’t do this, Jake.”

I ignore his words and make my way through the side yard. There are enough fallen leaves littered on the grass to punctuate each step with an audible crunch. I focus on that sound—concentrate on the rustling of dead leaves underfoot—to distract from anything but my desire to get to The Oak.

Cory’s hand encircles my wrist, halting me in my tracks.

“I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to shut me out. You’re trying to punish yourself. But that’s not acceptable. It’s not just you anymore, Jake. If you get hurt—if you do something reckless and rowdy—those consequences aren’t just yours to bear. Please. I’m asking you to stay.”

I can’t.

I want to.

I wish I could.

But I can’t.

“Don’t ask me to do that,” I huff out defensively, “unless you want to be disappointed.”

He glares at my rebuttal. Like he doesn’t believe me. Like he’s not giving up.

“I’m serious, Jake. There’s no good reason for you to go back to The Oak right now. None. You’re just going to hurt yourself. You’re going to hurtus.”

I close my eyes and consider for one split second what it would feel like to stay. To give in. To lean on him. But it’s a silly notion: a fool’s game. He may think he knows what happened. But in reality, he has no idea. Divulging the depth of my pain—carving out the scar of my shittiest decision and showing him how deeply I can cut and how beautifully I can bleed—that’s not going to happen. Not tonight. Not ever.

So instead of giving in, I push back. Hard.

“Drop the concerned husband act,” I sneer. “This has nothing to do with you and me. This is something I have to handle on my own. Don’t try to butt in where you don’t belong.”

He physically recoils at my rejection.