Sometimes, this is what love does to people - it makes them deal with shit that they shouldn't have to.
He doesn't say a word as he backs me up against the nearest wall by the bathroom, caging me in. His eyes are unreadable, and I cannot deny that I'm afraid, because I am a little.
"Do you think I'm . . . I don't know, stupid, B?" he asks, his voice bordering on condescending.
I try to lean as far away from him as possible, trying to get a better look at him. His eyes are beginning to show so much; they're almost laughing at me.
"No, I don't," I say carefully, wondering where he's going with this.
He tilts his head down a little.
"Good, because I'm not," he says, his voice calm but a storm is raging behind the stillness—it's forced. "You went through my room." He isn't asking, it's a fucking statement.
I don't say word, still not knowing if he's high or not.
He smiles like he's caught me, and I suppose that he has.
"Did you think I didn't know why you were going upstairs—the real reason? Oh, maybe you fooled my bitch of a sister, but I know you and your ways, the games you play, baby girl," he taunts.
My eyes keep locked with his.
"Tell me," he says, leaning in close to my mouth, whispering. "Tell me you didn't go through my shit."
He brushes his lips over mine, but I hardly even feel them.
"I could bruise you again right now for going behind my back, for not fucking trusting me," he tells me, nipping at my bottom lip.
"You already do that; you do it to my heart every time you're like this!" I hiss.
He chuckles against my mouth, looking at me briefly.
"Say you trust me," he demands, kissing me.
I don't say anything, because there isn't anything to say.
I stand there frozen, instead.
"Say it, baby girl; tell me how much you fucking trust me." He bites my lip again.
"But you don't, do you? No, no, that's motherfucking clear, sweetheart," he says snidely.
"Fuck off," I tell him, becoming just as harsh as he's being.
He laughs and kisses me, but it's unwanted; I don't want anything to do with him when he's like this. I come to the realization that no, he isn't high; this is just a side of Edward that he rarely ever shows, but is still there.
I reach up and grab at the back of his head, getting a handful of his hair, and yank his head back.
"Go to hell, Edward!" I push him back, away from me.
I step away from the hall and start to walk away, only for him to grab hold of my arm.
"Let go of me!" I tell him.
He turns me around.
"Go ahead; fucking leave like you always do!" he dares me.
"Oh no, don't you fucking dare turn this around on me!" I shout back at him. "This shit—this is your doing, Edward! Now, let go of my damn arm!"
Thankfully, he does as I ask and let's go.
"Fuck . . . what am I doing?" he mutters.
I roll my eyes.
"You know exactly what you're doing; don't even play that game," I snap, fed up.
"Are you okay, baby?" he asks, worry shining his eyes now.
"Go to hell," I repeat. "I don't even know who you are, anymore!"
I leave him standing there and bound down the stairs, and see Emma still in the kitchen.
"Are you alright?" she asks, worried.
I shake my head.
"Did he hurt you? Physically, I mean."
I shake my head again.
"I've gotta go—I gotta get outta here," I say. "I shouldn't have come."
"Wait!" I hear Edward yell, coming down the stairs after me.
I turn around at the backdoor, and he's behind me.
He looks panicked.
"D-don't l-leave, baby; I'm sorry," he says, stuttering.
I huff. "I'm leaving, and that's that. I shouldn't have even come today; it's obvious I'm not wanted."
He vehemently shakes his head.
"Please, stay. Don't fucking leave again!" he pleads, eyes and voice begging me not to do this to him again.
"I didn't say it was for good, did I?" I cross my arms. "Look . . . I need to cool off and so do you."
"How long?" he asks, real fear in his tone.
I shrug. "Hours? Maybe a day or two? I don't know, Edward; I don't know!"
He nods. "Did you—did you mean anything that you said up there?"
"Like what?"
"For me to 'go to hell'." He uses air-quotes.
See, that's the thing; he gets me to say shit that I'd normally never, ever say, and never mean. However, then again, I wouldn't say the things I do if I didn't mean them. I'd never tell him that, though.
"No," I half-lie.
Emma snorts quietly, and Edward turns to glare at her.
I put my hand on the doorknob, twisting it to open the door.
"I'll be back later," I say.
Edward spins back to me.
"When's 'later'?" he asks, panic returning.
I sigh. "I don't know . . . I need time to clear my head."
Meaning, I need time to think.
"But," I say, grabbing his jaw and forcing him to look at me. "Fucking pick up your damn phone and call me if need be! Got it?" I lock eyes with him.
He nods and leans in like he wants to kiss me, but sees me tense and I think I flinch, so he takes an actual step back, sighing in defeat.
"I'm sorry," he says again.
"Whatever," I say, waving my hand.
I guess that fear I felt upstairs is still lingering around, even now.
"I love you," he says.
He looks—and sounds—almost like he isn't quite sure that I'm going to say it back; because maybe he pushed the limit this time, crossed that unforgivable line? Little does he know (or, maybe he does), he already crossed that line the first time he turned to drugs instead of coming to me for help, and yet here I am, still.
I nod. "Love you, too."
I can tell that he's disappointed I didn't say exactly what he told me, but he does breathe a sigh that sounds like relief.
"Talk to you later?" he asks.
"Yeah; fucking call me, though, if you need me!" I point my finger, trying to get my point across.
He nods.
"I will, baby."
Right, well we'll see if he does or not.
Emma follows me out to my car and I get in, starting it.
"I'll call even if he doesn't," she tells me.
I nod, thank her, and then take off.