Friends With Benefits

Chapter 14

My heart had been broken too many times now. I couldn't deal with all that again. The risk was too much - one which I wasn't willing to take.

But Harry would never understand that. He'd try to convince me that he'd never hurt me, never leave - because he loved me, of course. But obviously that was what he was going to say, I couldn't ever know for sure. And so, I'd settled on sabotaging my life for myself. I'd hurt Harry until he didn't love me anymore - I'd slowly make him hate me. And how better to do that than to fuck with his drummer?

After that night, when he'd put in so much effort to please me, and still managed to make it perfect even though everything had gone wrong, I'd begun my plot to destroy everything. All it took was a single text. Just a few short words.

Are you busy tonight?

Josh had been intrigued, and my phone buzzed mere moments after sending it. Within a few short hours, I was screaming into his pillows as he fucked me hard from behind, the way Harry had always loved to do it. I was grateful for his choice really - it meant I didn't have to see his face. That way, it was easier to pretend to myself that I was Harry's soft fingers on my spine, and I could hear his passionate, deep voice whispering into my ear telling me how much he cared.

As time went on and we fucked more often, I learned to stop hearing Harry in my head. It became purely sex, nothing more or less, and that was perfect. That way, I could separate myself from Harry, make myself forget about how he made me feel beautiful when we were together. Instead, when I was with Josh, I plainly felt like a disgusting whore.

Ignoring Harry was the worst part. Watching him grow more and more frantic, confused and dejected. His texts became rhetorical, never expecting a reply, and his attempted calls which were constant and anxious at first became occasional and slightly hopeless. He'd hang up after the first ring, as if he'd decided to call, then realised it was futile and pitiable and hung up. I wished I could answer those calls, just to lay in bed and hear his voice in my ear like I had grown used to since before Christmas. He never slept without saying goodnight, and I started hearing his voice telling me to sleep well in my dreams. It was never as good as in real life, his voice in my head. It lacked the same silky undertone, the sound of his smile in his voice, and the sense in his words that he was thinking of me.

We'd met up once or twice, unavoidably. He was heading to LA at the end of March for two weeks, and he begged to see me before hand. When I did text him, it was to excuse myself as being busy, telling him I was in the studio writing when in fact I had barely put pen to paper for my new album. He never questioned me, just replied a little sadly, saying he wished he could see my face.

The sex had depleted terribly. It had become structured and robotic, though I knew he tried his best to please. I forced myself to remain unresponsive, even when his soft, tense touch was driving my insane, because he had to think I didn't want him anymore. He had to be convinced that I was bored of him, so that he could grow to hate me. That was the only way I could ever justify myself for being too scared to love him - if he didn't love me back.

It hurt to know that I was hurting him, and he was definitely in pain. His eyes had no spark anymore, and I was positive that he knew there was someone else. It was breaking his poor little heart, but all I could do was remind myself it was best in the long run. When he didn't want me anymore, I would be by myself again, and free to be alone and miserable. That was the best way to be, in that addictive kind of sadness. Being happy was too difficult, because there was always the risk that at any minute you could lose it all. It would be worse then, because once you'd had a taste of being truly happy, it would hurt more when it all slid from under your feet.