The Heartbroken - S01 E171

Story 2 years ago

The Heartbroken - S01 E171

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 171

Seth and Nicole had been gone for

nearly an hour, and I found myself

resorting to drinking in the hopes

that it would drown out the image

of them kissing.

Alyssa refused to tell me more than

what she had revealed so far, and

while it was frustrating, I knew I

couldn’t force her into telling me. It

wasn’t her place to tell.

Everyone offered to talk to me

about the whole Seth fiasco, but I

declined until they reluctantly

backed off. Lily tried calling Nicole’s

cell, but the Fuckabish wasn’t

answering, and I figured she was

probably busy locking lips with

Seth.

I didn’t think I could stomach

facing Seth once he returns, so I

told everyone that I was going to

just head home, apologizing for

ruining the whole night.

Needless to say, before I could even

dash off, Alyssa and Lily were

already pulling me back to one of

the foldable seats around the grill,

refusing to let me go home when I

was both intoxicated and pissed

off.

How could I have fallen for him in

the first place?

Stupid. I continued to drink, trying

to get to that puke-pass-out state

of drunkenness, hoping it would

keep my mind off everything.

Why did everything have to be so

difficult? I screwed up a lot and

have had my fair share of the

blame, and I knew that I couldn’t

help myself from being a b---h, but

did he really have to run off like

that? It was like he knew exactly

what would really hurt me.

I was just about to grab another

bottle of beer from the cooler when

a hand shot out to grab my wrist.

I looked up.

“That’s enough,” Seth said, eyes

dark and hooded in the absence of

light. Shadows fell across his face

and I couldn’t make out his

expression, but the coldness in his

voice was enough to tell me that he

was still mad.

I tried to snatch my wrist back, but

he didn’t let go, his grip

surprisingly strong and firm. In fact,

he was kind of hurting me a bit.

He pried the beer from my hand

and continued to hold me in his

death grip.

I tried to yank my hand away again.

“You’re not the boss of me.”

His grip tightened. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not.”

I couldn’t keep myself from wincing

when his grip tightened once

more. Almost as if I’d burned him,

his fingers snapped open.

He took a step back, eyes wide, and

I pulled my wrist to my chest, trying

to rub some feeling back into it

with my other hand. It was the first

time he ever let himself physically

hurt me, and I couldn’t help but feel

wary, as if a part of me was

breaking inside as well.

“Shit. I didn’t mean—I wasn’t—” He

lifted a hand, reaching for my wrist

as if to inspect it.

I flinched.

His hand froze, hovering

uncertainly in the distance between

us, and he suddenly seemed so far

away. Or maybe he alwayshad

been.

He dropped his hand to the side.

Softly, he said, “Does it hurt?”

I didn’t have to say yes for him to

know the answer.

He didn’t take a step closer, as if the

space between us was suddenly

impossible to cross, and at that

moment, it felt like it really was. I

swallowed, trying to ignore the dull

ache in my wrist.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, playing

with a blade of grass with the toe

of his shoe.