Author: Cheryl McIntyre

Love. It turns you into a murder planning lunatic with a penchant for stalking.

Why the hell does everybody insist love is a cure-all? All you need is love? That and a straightjacket. Or maybe some helpful brochures on choosing the right psychotic meds.

I can handle this shit when it comes to anybody else. I’ll give the best damn advice you’ve ever heard. Like Oprah, Gandhi, and Dr. Phil all rolled into one. But when it happens to me—I’m completely fucking helpless.

~*~

I stop by Annie’s dorm room after work. I usually don’t do this because one: I typically smell. My clothes are always wet and greasy, and my hair is melded to my head from my work hat. And two: I don’t like reminding her I’m a busboy/dishwasher.

But I want to see her. Even though I just saw her a few hours ago at lunch, it’s like this physical need—an addiction. And I need to feed my habit. She’s been on my mind all night. All I want is one quick glance and I’ll be happy.

The main door is open, which pisses me off. With everything that happened with Loden, this door should be kept locked. I let myself in and pause in front of her bedroom to run my fingers through my hair, attempting to make myself a little more presentable. And then I hear something that has me backing up, fighting the urge to either kick down the door or vomit.

Definitely vomit.

A male grunt followed by a soft feminine moan has me cupping my hand over my mouth to hold back the desire to puke. My other hand tugs on my hair, hoping a shot of pain will wake me up from this nightmare.

What the fuck?

I turn around and head for the door as fast as I can because I have no right to be pissed—Annie’s not mine—but I can’t seem to comprehend this at the moment. I want to bust in that room and toss the guy out the God. Damned. Window.

And then I want to throw up because some other guy—some guy that isn’t me—has his dick inside her. I gag as I slam my palm against the elevator button. It never bothered me this much when she was with Loden. I think because I never expected it to truly last. But this… I didn’t know she was seeing anybody. How the hell didn’t I know that?

Why the hell didn’t she tell me?

I deserve that much. Don’t I? She knows how I feel. I’ve made myself pretty damn clear that I want her. I’ve just been waiting on her. Obviously she doesn’t want to wait. She wants someone else. That’s not unusual. She’s always wanted someone other than me. But she should have told me. I thought shit was changing between us.

Fuck.

I’m such an idiot.

I knew she didn’t feel as strongly as I did, but I never realized there was nothing there.

I’m over here talking about love and shit, and she’s over there—nope. I can’t even think it.

I jab the elevator button repeatedly. I want out of here now. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep hanging out with her, looking at her, touching her… Not now. Not knowing…

The doors slide open and I step inside, willing the elevator to hurry the hell up. With all the technology in the world, they can’t make a faster elevator for quick escapes? I’d invest everything I own right now to make that a reality.

My hands fist as each floor goes by. I want to punch the wall. No. I want to punch whoever is in Annie’s room with her.

No. I want to punch myself.

I want to kick my own ass so damn bad for thinking there was something there. I’ll never be good enough for Annie. I know it. She knows it. That guy—the lucky bastard finding bliss in her bed—who’s probably smart, rich, and has a list of goals longer than I can pay attention—he knows it.

He’s probably perfect for her in every way.

He sure as hell seemed to be making her happy. She sounded more than happy.

Fuck.

It shouldn’t hurt this much.

I scrub my hands over my face, and then through my hair before starting the car. This is bullshit. It shouldn’t bother me this badly. What and who Annie does is her own personal business. It has nothing to do with me.

And maybe that’s why it hurts. Because I want it to have everything to do with me.

Only me.

Screw this love shit.

I’m done.

Love isn’t a cure-all.

It’s a fucking disease.

35

Shelter

Annie

I had put in a request for a single room. Hannah put in a request to room with me again. I was denied and she got her way. Living with her last year had almost been like living alone, but this year, with her boyfriend taking a job out of state, it’s extremely different. She’s home most nights now and Eric—the boyfriend—ends up in our room two weekends a month. I think it might be time to get my own place. I’m trying to hold out until next year because an apartment means rent and bills. The twenty hours I put in at the library’s computer lab for minimum wage isn’t going to cover that. It barely covers gas in my car. But I think I need to find a full time job. Besides, I’m way overdue to get out of these dorms.

Was there really a time I couldn’t wait to grow up? How naively stupid of me. Being an adult is so overrated.

I drive the fifteen minutes to Guy’s. I would’ve preferred to stay at Chase’s, because it’s much closer—his new efficiency apartment is just off campus. And to be honest, I like sleeping close to him. His apartment is so tiny, that even when I’m on the couch and he’s in his bed, all I need to do is turn on my side to face him. Sometimes he’ll reach his hand out and hold mine until I fall asleep. But he’s working tonight and I have no idea when he’ll be home.

Guy opens the door, looks down at the overnight bag in my hand, and sighs. He steps back, holding the door open for me. “Hannah’s boyfriend’s in town?” he asks as he pushes his blonde bangs off his forehead.

Instead of answering his dumb question—because why else would I show up at his door this late at night with an overnight bag?—I say, “You need a haircut.”

“Oh, joy. It’s going to be that kind of visit,” he says flatly. “Hold on. Let me gather all the fucks I give.” He pats his pockets and then his chest. “Okay, done,” he finishes, holding out empty palms. “What else do you want to complain about?”

I drop my bag on the floor and fall back on the couch. I prop my feet on the coffee table and fold my hands over my stomach, making a show of getting comfortable. “Well, I could complain about your shitty mood.”

Guy swings the door closed and bolts it before turning back to me. “I’m not in a shitty mood,” he replies and I detect a defensive edge to his tone. “I’m just sick and tired of everybody finding something wrong with me.”

My feet slide from the table as I sit up. I look at him closely, trying to read his expression. This isn’t Guy. I mean, he often acts like an ass when it comes to me, but he’s always happy, too. And Guy isn’t happy at the moment.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. The more I think about it, I realize Guy hasn’t seemed very happy for a long while.

He sits down beside me and I shift closer to him, wanting him to know I truly care. We may be step-siblings, and it’s no secret we’re not the closest, but I care about him. I don’t like seeing him upset. Especially when he’s taking it out on me.

“Nothing,” he sighs. “I’m good. Just been one of those days.”

“You can talk to me,” I say. “I’ll listen and try really hard not to judge you too harshly.”

His brows rise and he chuckles lightly. “As appealing as you make that sound, I think I’ll pass. But thanks.” He folds his leg under him and rests his chin in his hand. “Let’s talk about something else. What’s going on with you lately?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, my eyes glued to the freckle on my knee. I skim my fingers over it several times as if it’s the most interesting speckle of brown in the history of brown speckles.

“You’ve been different.”

“So have you,” I say, finally meeting his gaze.

His eyes narrow as he stares at me. He blinks and shrugs. “Point taken.”

“Wanna watch a movie?” I suggest. He grins as he offers me the remote. It’s pretty clear we don’t want to talk about our personality changes. Or, for me, the person behind it. I glance at Guy, wondering if someone is responsible for his as well. In my case, I’m happier. But in Guy’s…he’s not happy.

I sigh and turn the TV off.

“I have feelings for someone,” I blurt.

He regards me with an amused smirk. His blue eyes twinkle—I swear. “What kind of feelings are we talking about? Like, tingly-in-the-pants feelings? Or wedding-invitation-in-the-mail feelings?”

I make a face and hold up my index finger. “Okay, first: Ew.” I cringe. I think I could’ve gone my whole life without him ever asking if I have a tingle in my pants. “And second: neither.” I’m staring at that freckle again. “It’s more like I-haven’t-told-him-because-my-feelings-are-so-strong-I-can’t-chance-losing-him feelings.”

“It’s not me, is it?” Guy asks, his eyes darting over my face in a panic.

“Oh, my God. NO.”

He blows out a relieved puff of air. I roll my eyes. Of course Guy would think I was secretly pining over him.

“ThankyouBabyJesus,” he breathes. “Not that you aren’t…” He waves his hand, gesturing from my head to my feet. “…a catch? But you know I’m like a solid six on the Kinsey scale, right? Like…fully homosexual.”

“Yeah,” I say, stretching out the word. “I’ve been pretty clear about your sexual preference since we were fifteen and you spent more time flirting with my boyfriends than I did.”

“Okay.” He grins. “Continue with your hidden feelings.”

I press my lips together and begin counting in my head. When I reach ten, I take a deep breath and let it all out in a rush. “I think he has feelings for me. In fact, I know he does. But I’m not sure if they’re just…‘tingly-in-the-pants’ feelings on his part. And he’s waiting on me to be ready. I feel ready, regardless of what kind of feelings he has, but if it doesn’t work, and I lose him—” I can’t even continue. I can’t lose Chase. He’s become too important to me.

Guy puckers his lips and nods his head. “Hm.”

I throw my hands out, palms up. You have got to be shitting me. “That’s it? Hm?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. I thought you’d have some gay wisdom to offer. Some profound insight that all homosexuals seem to have.”

He laughs. Loudly. And for a really insulting amount of time. Just when I think he’s calming down, he looks at me as he wipes tears from his eyes, and breaks out into a whole new fit of laughter.

Asshole.

“I’m sorry,” he pants, trying to catch his breath. “Gay wisdom.” He shakes his head and starts laughing again. “Gay does not equal the Dalai Lama.” I glare at him as I contemplate sleeping in my car. I can’t believe I pour my heart out to him and he laughs at me.

This is why I’m a bitch.

It’s other people. Not my fault.

“All right. Well, thanks for nothing.”

“Okay. Okay.” He takes an exaggerated breath and blows it out slowly, his lips twitching the whole time. He clears his throat. “It seems to me,” he presses his palm to his chest, “with my ‘gay wisdom,’ you already know what you want. You just have to figure out if he’s worth the risk.”

“How do I figure that out?”

“I don’t really know. I guess… Is the risk of being without him worth trying to be with him? But before you answer that, think it through. Could you watch him be with somebody else and be okay with it?”