Dylan fucking Wells.
Spineless son of a bitch. Spawn of Satan. A sad excuse for a man who very soon will be hobbling around campus missing his teeny tiny dick and his grape-sized balls.
I’m fucking fuming. Sitting on the guys’ couch, watching my friend shiver and cry and blame herself yet again for that asshole’s actions, I am fuming. I have been since the moment I stepped outside and found a rapidly growing crowd with a thrashing, crying redhead in the centre. I didn’t recognize the guys Amelia clawed at as she tried to get to a bleeding Nick but the piece of shit who gripped her by the back of her dress and tossed her aside like a fucking trash bag? I knew that was Dylan before I even saw his face.
I swear to God, if someone else hadn’t beaten me to it, I would’ve flattened the fucker. Although, I think there might be a long line for that honor, and Nick is currently frothing at the mouth to be at the front.
It hurts to look at him. Like, physically hurts. The sight of his swollen eyes—trained on Amelia since Cass carried her through the door—and bruised skin is giving me a headache. The only solace in this situation is the fact Dylan crawled away with his tail between his legs looking just as beat up, courtesy of Cass, Nick, and Amelia. It would’ve been so inappropriate to start cheering and clapping when she nailed him straight in the jaw, but God, I wanted to so badly. And if the overwhelming shock of the situation hadn’t had me glued to the spot, I probably would’ve.
However, that sense of triumph I felt, the little inkling of pride that flourished, quickly wore off when Amelia crumpled to the floor the second Dylan was out of sight. It vanished entirely when she cringed as I took her hand, and I got that same sick feeling in my stomach that I did that awful night in September.
I silently simmer as I watch my friend fall apart, taking all the blame for something that isn’t remotely her fault. I watch Nick comfort her, and can’t help but wonder what would have happened if she’d met Nick first, before Dylan ever existed to her.
I would do anything, anything, for the ability to turn back time. To go back to the day they met and stop it from happening.
Fingers laces with mine, stopping the fidgeting I didn’t even realize I was doing. Glancing down, I find the skin beneath my ring bright red, rubbed raw from twisting too much. A little green-tinged too because the thing cost, like, two bucks from some dingy thrift store.
When I shift my gaze to the hand holding mine, I cringe. They’re just bruises. The skin isn’t even broken. Jackson doesn’t flinch in the slightest when I run my thumb over his busted-up knuckles. He’s nowhere near as bad as Nick but still, I hate it.
I hate every mark left on the people I care about by a man I despise.
I can’t let it happen again.
I don’t realize I’m standing until a sea of furious words spill out of my mouth. “You can’t do this again. This is the third time he’s hurt you. You have to report him.”
A heavy silence settles in the room, tinged with disbelief and a steady thrum of ever-growing anger. Cass is the first to break it, voice a deadly kind of quiet. “The third time?”
Something in the back of my head nags at me to shut up. Insists I’m going too far. But it’s drowned out by so much anger and irritation and fucking guilt that I can’t hold in my angry, dry laugh. “You think that was bad? Two months ago she came home with a split lip and a concussion after he-”
Amelia cuts me off by hissing my name and my angry gaze flicks to her. Pleading eyes silently beg me to shut up but I can’t, I’m too far gone, too lost in a white-hot rage.
Out of my peripheral, I see Cass looking between the two of us slowly. I can see the cogs turning in his brain, trying to piece together the small tidbits of information he’s been given. “He hit you?”
Amelia promises him he didn’t. A lie of omission, a fucking technicality. After everything, she’s still covering for him.
“No,” the words spill out before I can stop them, acidic and bitter and wrong, “he just slammed a car door in your face.”
My lips snap shut a second too late. Too slowly, my brain catches up with my mouth and I deflate. A wave of regret downs out my anger at the sight of Amelia’s face, painted with anger, shock, betrayal.
Fuck.
Too far.
Way too fucking far.
“You have no right to tell them that,” Amelia seethes and I recoil.
I know. I know, I know, I know.
My mouth opens and closes as I search for something to say, my chest aching as Amelia turns away before I can, speaking to Cass in soft apologetic tones.
Like a scolded puppy, I retreat to the sofa, sinking onto the cushions and wishing they would envelop me entirely. Tucking my legs up to my chest and resting my chin on my knees, I cover my mouth with my hand as though that will keep anything else from flowing out.
Fuck.
The next hour passes agonizingly slowly.
Tense and weepy and awkward.
Nick fled the room halfway through the retelling of a concise version of events for Kate’s benefit—she picked a hell of a party to skip—like he couldn’t bear to relive it all. Amelia lasted a whole twenty minutes before mumbling an excuse and following him upstairs, armed with booze, a first aid kit, and a heartbreakingly guilty expression.
It’s funny, how earlier tonight, that would’ve had me cartwheeling in delight. Nick and Amelia, alone in his bedroom, shacking up for the night? Mission accomplished.
Except mission not accomplished because the whole point was to relieve some of that stress weighing Amelia down, not add more.
I stay exactly where I am. Still curled up on the sofa, still wishing it would swallow me whole. I avoid eye contact with everyone—especially Cass because he keeps sending curious, pleading glances my way, and I scared I’ll somehow spill more secrets—and selfishly wallow in how fucking awful I feel.
Jackson hasn’t left my side, happy to let me hide from the world in the crook of his neck. A hand gently plays with the ends of my hair, the other coasting up and down one of the legs strewn across his lap, squeezing comfortingly every so often. “It’s okay,” he whispers every so often. “Everything will be okay.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” I whisper back, regret burning my throat like acid.
Jackson stays silent. Just keeps stroking and murmuring and soothing, like I’m a child recovering post-tantrum while I twist my ring round and round and round until the friction burns my skin. A quiet plea to stop caresses the top of my head and when I don’t, Jackson does it for me. Slipping the ring off my finger and onto his pinky, he frowns as he brings my hands to his lips, blowing gently on the inflamed skin. “I’m throwing this thing away.”
“It looks better on you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches as he swipes a thumb across my lower lip, the smell of the Arnica I smoothed over his bruising knuckles tickling my nose. “You tryna put a ring on my finger already?”
I pull a horrified face but below it lurks a weak smile. He’s good at that, making me smile when I least feel like it. “You throw it away, you buy me a new one.”
My grumbled comment earns me an amused eyebrow raise. “Now you’re trying to get me to put a ring on your finger?”
“I hate you.”
Still smiling, he leans in, his skin soft and warm as he rests his forehead against mine, gently nudges my nose with his. “Liar.”
Yeah. Big, fat liar. But I don’t get the chance to deny it because a body throws itself on the couch beside me, making me curl further into Jackson as though he can protect me from what is undoubtedly about to be a verbal spanking.
From the moment Kate burst in the house, I’ve avoided her. I already know I fucked up. I don’t need the lecture.
“Luna-”
“I know,” I cut off what I’m sure is a very eloquent reprimand. “I fucked up.”
“Yeah, you did.” Kate balances out her curt tone with a gentle hand on my shoulder. “But you’ll fix it tomorrow.”
Instinctively, I go to fiddle with my ring, rolling my eyes when I’m hindered by Jackson’s tight grip. Kate zones in our clasped hands, a hint of a smile on her face that she hides with pursed lips. Scooting closer, she casts a cautious look in Cass’ direction before whispering, “Did something happen between Nick and Amelia?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I just wonder what set Dylan off,” Kate wonders aloud, but we both know the answer.
Nick could’ve been tying her fucking shoeless and Dylan’s reaction still would’ve been cataclysmic. He doesn’t know how to react with anything other than extremity. An outfit he doesn’t approve of, a waiter getting his order wrong, a fucking haircut.
Rejection.
He takes none of it. He makes all of it someone else’s problem.
And I am so, so tired of it being mine.
My second journey upstairs tonight is very different to my first.
No grabby hands or smashing lips, just silence and tension and cautious glances at Nick’s closed bedroom door before Jackson shuts his.
I get ready for bed quickly, eager to close my itchy eyes and rest my aching head. Fingers that aren’t mine tug my hair free of its constricting ponytail, smoothing out the tangles. and I lean into the touch eagerly. Lips graze my cheek before hands squeeze my shoulders and steer me towards the bed, one pulling back the covers for me to slip beneath.
I do and Jackson joins me quickly, shirtless and his jeans exchanged for sweatpants, smelling all minty fresh and clean. I’m tugged back against his chest the moment he lies down, engulfed in his arms, limbs all tangled together, his fingers alternating between stroking my back and massaging the nape of my neck. I exhale a pent up breath only to inhale deeply, breathing him in.
I’m exhausted but my mind won’t stop racing. I’m desperate for sleep but I can’t find it, and not even Jackson’s presence has its usual lullaby effect. I can tell he’s still awake too, the rise and fall of his chest against my back too erratic. When I toss and turn for the millionth time, he holds me in place. “You’ll fix it tomorrow.”
A wholly unattractive snort escapes me. “You sound like Kate.”
I feel his smile against my skin. “I’m taking that as a compliment.”
“You should. She’s the only one of us with her shit together.”
I envy her for it. I’m not naive enough to assume that Kate has a perfect life, I know she has her fair share of problems. But it’s the way she handles them that I’m jealous of. With a grace and clarity and sureness that I could never achieve in a million years. The epitome of control.
I’m the opposite. Rash and angry and impulsive. Incapable of rationally solving something even if my life depended on it. Always opening my big fucking mouth when it’s not wanted. My mom blames it on my diagnosis. Kate and Amelia say it’s because I’m a Leo. But the scary thing is I’m pretty sure it’s just me.
“I fucked up,” I whisper into the darkness. “I keep fucking up.”
Jackson doesn’t say anything but I can tell he’s listening, waiting for me to keep talking.
“I knew what was happening and I let her stay with him. I didn’t do anything.”
“What could you have done?”
“Something. Anything.”
“Luna,” Jackson says quietly, coaxing me to face him, a hand on my chin directing my eyes to his. They’re alight with a fierce sincerity, an essence of pleading, like he’s desperate for me to hear him. “There isn’t anything you, or anyone else, could’ve done.”
That’s not true. I could’ve pushed harder. I could’ve prevented all of this. But he doesn’t know that because he doesn’t know everything. No one knows everything. No one knows just how much I could’ve put an end to this. Months ago, before it got so fucking bad.
“He hit on me.” The confession spills out, my chest constricting from the weight of it, an automatic wince curling my features.
“The other night?”
“Before that.” I swallow down the guilt rising like bile in my throat caused by the secret I buried. “At the end of sophomore year.”
The only time, besides the other night, I’ve ever been alone with Dylan.
The reason I made an effort to never be alone with him again.
What happened in my apartment. The apartment I share with his girlfriend, who was on her way home from work. A place I’m supposed to always be safe in, my space.
“He was drunk. Or high. Honestly, probably both. I can’t even remember what he said exactly. I brushed it off. I thought I was imagining it or that I misunderstood what he said or something.”
My head shakes at my own naivety.
I might not remember what he said but I can still feel the effect it had on me, the revolt that trickled down my spine and left me feeling dirty. Maybe if I’d been smarter and shut it down, it wouldn’t have gone any further.
Hindsight. A wonderful thing.
“He grabbed my ass.”
Jackson stiffens, and I avert my gaze. I don’t want to see the look in his eyes. Pity or disappointment or whatever, I don’t want it.
“I pushed him away and he grabbed me again, by my wrist this time.” Fucker has a thing for wrists. Words can’t describe how ill I felt when I saw those familiar marks on Amelia. “It was so quick. I didn’t even realize what was happening until he was trying to kiss me.” A bitter laugh escapes me. “He touched my boobs. Fucking honked them like a horny teenager.”
I recoiled immediately. Pushed him away. Yelled at him to get his greasy paws off me. I was halfway out the door, ready to intercept Amelia on her way home from work and tell her everything when Dylan’s voice stopped me.
“She won’t believe you.”
I swear I can still hear him sometimes, and my snorted laugh that followed. “You wanna bet?” I’d sneered but all my confidence had been knocked in an instant by a snickering laugh and cocky, downright evil smirk.
“He said he’d tell her it was me who came onto him,” I croak out, shame coating every syllable. Word for word, I repeat his threat. “I’ll tell her you were desperate and jealous and begging for me. Who do you think she’ll believe? Her loving boyfriend or her little whore friend who fucks anything that moves?”
Jackson flinches and I’m not sure if it’s from the words themselves or my tone. Harsh and spitting, mimicking Dylan’s that night.
I had flinched too. And I faltered. I believed him. Dylan and Amelia were good at the time, or as close as they ever were to it. Amelia was happy. She was so fucking in love, or at least she thought she was. She worshiped him.
So, I stayed quiet. I acted fine when Amelia arrived home barely ten minutes later. I acted fine when Dylan kissed Amelia with the lips he’d tried to kiss me with and grabbed her with the same hands he’d grabbed me with. I acted fine when I slinked off to my room and turned up the music to a thumping volume to cover the sound of me sobbing.
I acted fine when everything went to shit after that.
It was like Dylan just stopped trying, or even pretending, to be a good boyfriend. Amelia blamed herself but I knew it was my fault. I knew it was my rejection, my silence, my cowardice that caused the downfall of the relationship she was desperately clinging to.
I know now that if I’d told Amelia, she would’ve believed me. If I’d told her, none of this would have happened. Just another one of my shitty calls.
After what feels like an hour of tense silence, I finally muster up the courage to look at Jackson. The hard look in his eyes shocks me a little, such an enormous contrast to their usual warmth. “He assaulted you,” he grinds out, a muscle in his jaw jumping erratically. “You’re so angry that Amelia didn’t report him but you didn’t either.”
“It’s not the same.” What happened to me was short, over before I even realized what was happening. It was one time. What happened to Amelia was prolonged and vicious and purposeful. He wanted to hurt her. He just wanted to fuck with me.
Or to fuck me.
“Like hell it isn’t,” Jackson spits, tone riddled with frustration. He expels a heavy puff of air as he rolls onto his back, his hands leaving me to scrub at his exasperated expression. “Jesus, Luna.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper because it’s the only thing I can think to say, because I owe someone an apology and she’s not here to hear it.
“Don’t do that. Don’t apologize because he’s a piece of shit.”
I press my lips together to keep another from spilling out.
Jackson’s head lolls towards me, his expression softening, a gentle hand smoothing over the top of my head. “You never told Amelia?”
“I couldn’t. I can’t. It’s too late now, it would just make things worse.” And I’ve already done enough of that. “She’d hate me.”
“No, she wouldn’t.”
He’s right, she wouldn’t. She’s too good, too kind, for that. But I’d hate myself. For really being as shallow and self-absorbed and dramatic as people perceive me to be. For suddenly revealing my own ‘assault’ at Dylan’s hand and stealing the attention away from Amelia. What convenient timing.
Jackson opens his mouth to speak again, maybe to ask something else, but I cut him off. “Can we please stop talking about him now?”
“Can I just say one last thing?”
I nod.
“No one is at fault here but Dylan. Not you, not Amelia, no one but him.”
I can’t speak past the lump in my throat, so I nod again.
Exhaling deeply, Jackson wraps his arms around me again, crushing me to his chest, holding me like I might disappear. “Fuck, I hate him.”
“Join the club.”
