Page 7

Lilly

I’ve been living on this earth for almost twenty-one years, and in all that time not once has anyone called me a “good girl” the way Greyson just done.

My ex boyfriend refused to call me anything other than my name because he believed using words of endearment was pathetic, but I personally think he’s pathetic.

But the thing is, Greyson saying those two words to me shouldn’t have such an effect on me. It shouldn’t . And I don’t know why it does. And more importantly, I don’t know why I want him to repeat those words…it’s stupid, silly even. Maybe it’s because I haven’t had sex in months that hearing him say “good girl” made me want to submit to him, to allow him to do whatever he wanted to me.

I don’t even know him.

Anxiously picking the skin on my nails, Greyson appears at the booth with our drinks in hand. Placing my mocha down in front of m e, he takes a seat himself and surprises me by grabbing hold of my hand, stopping me from creating a blood bath if I continued to tear my skin.

I stare down at the mocha, the smell invading my nose. I don’t even know why I chose this drink, I usually go for an iced coffee—in winter too—but my mind frazzled when he asked me what I wanted, and I blurted out the first thing I saw on the board.

I’m also not used to anyone buying me a drink without asking for the money. Anytime Kyle would offer to buy me something, he’d always send an invoice a few days later and demand the money to be in his account by the end of that day. With him being like that, it ultimately led to me having to keep cash on me so I could just hand over the money and not feel guilty that I owed money.

It’s shitty, really, your own boyfriend demanding that you pay for your own things.

What kind of boyfriend does that?

“You’re gonna rip your whole finger off if you keep doing that,” Greyson says, rubbing a thumb smoothly over the ripped skin as his eyes lock on mine. “You, okay?”

I nod pulling my hand from his, and when I look down, I see blood. Fuck . He must see the panic in my eyes because when he looks down, he curses.

“I’ll go get some napkins.”

Watching as he leaves, I quickly fumble for my wallet and bring out a five before leaning over the table and shoving it into the side pocket of his backpack. I know he said he was buying, but I’ve been down this road before. He’ll ask for the cash back eventually, so it’s better to give it to him now rather than later.

Leaning back into the booth, my eyes dart to Greyson as he walks back toward me with a handful of napkins in his palm. Taking a seat, he leans forward and grabs my hand causing electricity to shoot up it as he begins dabbing at the blood.

“I can do that.” I fumbled, trying to take the napkin from him.

He pulls it away from my reach. “It’s nothing.” He shakes his head, dabbing a little more until the blood is completely gone.

“Thank you.” I whisper.

“It’s nothing.” He repeats.

But the thing is, it may seem like nothing to him, but it’s not to me.

After he’s finished dabbing the blood from my finger, he scrunches up the napkin and places it on top of some others. Picking my mocha up, I take a small sip, instantly moaning as the taste of both caffeine and chocolate hits my tongue.

I haven’t had an ounce of caffeine all day, and this is very much needed. “Thank you, for the drink.” I say, placing the mug down onto the table.

“It’s nothing.” There’s that word again.

On instinct, my fingers reach across to start picking at my nail again, but I have to physically restrain myself from doing so. Sighing, I pull my hands into the sleeves of my cardigan and clamp them down, no doubt carving half-moons into my palms. Greyson glances down at my hands, and it looks like he’s about to say something, but before he does, I speak.

“I’m petrified of moths.” I blurt out.

What the fuck?

Greyson raises a brow as he glances at me. “You’re afraid of moths?”

“Uh-huh,” I nod, grabbing my mocha and taking a sip. “I was ten, Elizabeth—my mom—forced me to go camping with her then boyfriend and his two kids.”

I was surprised when she mentioned the trip, Elizabeth wouldn’t be seen dead without a blow dry, let alone going camping in the wilderness where there’s no power outlets. Maybe she was trying to impress—what’s his face? —there’s been so many almost “husbands” that I’ve lost count.

After her divorce with my dad when I was five, there was a continuous cycle of different men, those I didn’t care to remember because they came in like a breeze and disappeared just as quickly…but I still remembered him , and the way he touched me, and it makes skin still crawl at just the thought.

“The kids and I were playing, it was getting dark, and I remember this huge moth flying straight at me,” I’d never been scared of moths before then, but that fucker was larger than my hand. “It got tangled in my hair and I freaked out because I couldn’t get it out. I just kept screaming, crying…and then I fell over a huge log and ended up breaking my arm.”

“Shit.”

Sighing, I lean back into the booth. “And apparently it was my fault that Liam, Greg? Whatever his name was. Apparently, it was my fault he broke things off with Elizabeth.”

“But you were a kid…”

Yeah, a kid. And she didn’t even take me to the ER. It wasn’t until I was at my dad’s three days later and complained to him about how painful and swollen my a rm was that I ended up finding out it was broken in two places. All Elizabeth cared about was the fact I ruined my “blowout” because God forbid your daughter falls over, breaks her arm, and all you care about is a stupid fucking blowout.

I think that might’ve been the moment she started hating me, because whatever his name was, he owned his own law firm, which meant he had money to satisfy her needs. But yeah, I had to go and ruin it, like always. How fucked up is that, blaming your kid for your failed relationship?

I feel Greyson’s hand suddenly curling around mine, and when I look down, I could see why. I’d self-consciously started picking at my nail bed again. Peeking at him through my lashes, I could see myself through his eyes making me pout.

I look vulnerable, and I fucking hate that.

“I don’t like frogs.” He admits, breaking the silence.

I can’t help the laugh that escapes my lips. “What?”

“Frogs,” he shivers, squeezing at my hands. “I hate them. They’re slimy, they’re gross and have you ever heard the noise they make when they think they’re in danger? It’s like the highest squeak I’ve ever heard.”

“Frogs are cute.”

“Dogs are cute, babies are cute. Hell, even old people are cute. But frogs? Fuck no,” he shakes his head, his face twisting in disgust. “I’m sure they were put on earth to torture me.”

“You’re being dramatic.” I laugh.

He smiles, and I’m taken away by it. His smile is so bright that it lights up his whole face, it’s a smile that reaches deep into his soul, reflecting a kind of hap piness that seems genuine and pure. I wish I could smile like that, smile like I haven’t a care in the world. I wish I could let go of all the worries and insecurities that always seem to weigh me down and just be in the moment like Greyson seems to be right now.

Sometimes I do catch myself practicing in the mirror, trying to mimic that effortless smile. But it never seems quite right. It feels fake. Like I’m trying too hard. There’s always a hint of hesitation, a shadow of doubt that lingers. Seeing Greyson smile like this, it’s a reminder of what I long for. To be genuinely happy. And maybe one day I will be. But for now, I’ve got no other choice but to continue painting on the fake smile and pretending that everything is okay.

We sit here—hand in hand—just staring at each other, almost like we’re caught in a trance. Is he judging all my insecurities? Is he criticizing the way I look?—Are my eyebrows too thin? My lips not plump enough? Is my nose too crooked?

Stop! I scowl at myself. Stop putting yourself down.

I hate myself sometimes for always thinking negatively. But truthfully, I care too much about what others think of me. I think I’m just insecure. With everything I’ve been through this last year or two with my ex, my confidence was knocked right off me. And I’m slowly gaining it back, piece by piece. But it’s difficult trying to love yourself again when you don’t even know who you are anymore.

We’re knocked out of our staring by Greyson’s phone ringing on the table. Quickly letting go off his hand like it burns me, I grab my mocha from the table, which is now lukewarm, and take small sips.

I could feel my chest tightening, and I hated it. I just want to leave. I want to go home, lock my self in my bedroom and forget about all my insecurities. I could feel Greyson’s eyes on me, and I look up to see his phone now on the table. He’s talking to me, but I can’t register what he is saying. His eyes are searching my face, and I hate it. Stop looking at me! I want to shout that, scream it in his face.

The walls of Leon’s seem to close in on me, the voices of the other people in here seem to blend into a cacophony that drowns out my thoughts. My heart races, pounding so loudly that I’m sure everyone in Riverside could hear it. I try to focus on the way Greyson’s lips move, trying to gauge what he’s saying, but I can’t.

I can’t breathe. I need to get out of here.

I can’t breathe…

The 5-4-3-2-1 rule my old therapist told me about repeats in my head like a mantra.

Five things I can see …coffee, blue eyes staring at me with worry, napkins with blood stains on them, a plant, and Greyson’s backpack.

Four things I can touch …Greyson, the table, the mug my mocha came in, and the potted plant.

Three things I can hear …my heart pounding against my chest, the high-pitched sizzling from the coffee machine, and a billion people talking at the same time.

Two things I can smell …coffee, and mahogany.

One thing I can taste …the salt from my tears, wait, when did I start crying?

It’s all too much.

I need to go.

“Hey, are you okay?” Greyson’s voice cuts through the thumping of my heart, his voice lace d with worry.

“I need to go,” I suddenly announce, scooting out of the booth. “Thank you for the drink.”

He shouts my name as I run from the booth, but I can’t stop. I can’t breathe. I need to breathe. I could see the door, my escape. My vision narrows as I weave through the tables, trying my hardest not to knock anyone as I skittishly run past.

Once my hand comes into contact with the door, I push it open with all my strength and gasp in a large breath. The cool air greets me almost instantly, but it’s not enough. I keep running, my feet pounding against the sidewalk until I’m at my car.

I fumble with my keys, unlocking it before getting inside. Finding the lever to the chair, I push it back and bring my knees to my chest, hugging them tightly, cocooning myself in the warmth as I let out a horrid sob, my tears unleashing like a dam.

I’m so pathetic.

Why can’t I be enough?

Why am I never enough?