Bliss

thirty-one

"W-what are you doing here?"

Spencer takes a step back, faltering slightly. "I'm here to see you," he says. His voice is far too matter-of-fact for my liking—like a black coffee, straight and to the point.

It triggers an alarm, the hum growing with each passing second until I squeeze my eyes tight and shake my head. "You need to leave," I say, the assertion helping to quiet the ringing.

"Leave?"

"Yes, Spencer, leave. As in right now."

The loss of the noise brings another layer of clarity that forces me to glance over his shoulder. A silent prayer runs through my mind as my eyes rake across the street. Unfortunately, it's a little too late for divine intervention. Far, far too late.

Isaac's smiling, which is something, but it's smarmy, dirty even, and I can't help but shy away from it. The gate's hinges squeal as he slams it shut, the piercing sound made worse by the sarcastic quirk of his brow and his taught hands that are pressed against the gate's rusted frame, flecks of peeling paint clinging to his palm.

"I guess you didn't know how you'd feel an hour later," he says as he rocks onto his heels.

"It's not what you think."

"What?" he laughs, the bitterness slicing through me. "It's not you picking him?"

"No." I shove past Spencer and hurry down the path. Isaac steps away, his tinted green palms hanging lifelessly by his side. "It's not," I insist. "I promise."

"Look," he sighs as his hand reaches for his neck, the paint transferring, "I don't even want to know."

"But—"

"I'll see you later."

He leaves before I have the good sense to unlock the gate; before I can even explain; before I think of chasing him. He simply goes, his figure retreating down the road.

He rounds the corner, disappearing for good, but I'm rooted in my spot. Honestly, my feet can't even think to move. My eyes, however, are a different story, and just when I want them to behave, my tear ducts let rip, and fat, salty tears roll down my cheeks and splash to the cobbled ground.

A hand rests on my shoulder, curving around it and slipping down my arm to my wrist. However, it's not until it's wrapped around my hand that I tear myself away.

"I hate you," I whisper, the words catching in the breeze. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."

"You don't mean that," Spencer says, taking a step closer. His breath fans across my neck, his scent engulfing me. It's like a prison, grimy and close. It lacks intimacy, privacy; for now, I know I'm not the only one who's been here, their back pressed against his chest, their ears clinging to the rasp in his voice.

"You love me," he says, over-confident to the extreme.

It's disgusting.

"You're crazy," I say.

"You can't just turn it off like that." He takes a step back.

"You're right, I couldn't. But seeing you with another girl was more than enough."

"It was a mistake."

"We all make mistakes," I say, finally turning to face him.

He takes a step towards me, a smile brightening his features.

"But."

His smile falls.

"That doesn't mean I have to give you a second, no, a third chance. You messed up. And do you know what?"