“You know that’s not what I’m asking for.”
“Then what are you asking for, Glyndon?”
I stare in the opposite direction, a tear sliding down my cheek. “Something you don’t have.”
“Don’t give me that.” He forces me to stare at him, his fingers digging in my chin. “And don’t you ever use that fucking argument with me.”
“Then if I ask for your heart, will you give it? Of course you won’t. You don’t have it. All your emotions are learned, right? So even if you say you like me, you adore me, you love me, I’ll never believe them, because you don’t believe them either. You say I love you to your mum all the time, but you told me it’s just to placate her. You’ve never felt what love is. You don’tknowwhat love is.”
His nostrils flare. It’s anger, it’s rage, but it’s not for the right reasons. “I’m giving you more than I’ve given anyone in my life, Glyndon. I’m giving you monogamy, dates that I usually don’t give a fuck about, and I’m even entertaining your friends and family. I’m sparing your brother, and choosing not to fight against your cousin, no matter how much he provokes me. I’m being fucking patient with your irritating fights and denials and dramatics. I told you that my tolerance and nice phases don’t come naturally. Not even a little, not even fucking close. So be grateful, take what I’m offering, and stop being fucking difficult every step of the way.”
I can’t control the tear that flows down my other cheek. “What you’re giving me isn’t enough.”
“Glyndon,” he grinds out.
I close my eyes. “I want to go home.”
“Open your fucking eyes.”
I do, though after a while, I repeat, assertively this time, “I want to go home.”
His jaw clenches, but he slowly releases me and goes to driver’s side.
I fall asleep with tears in my eyes and a shard of pain in my soul.
But the truth of the matter is, I should only blame myself for having feelings for a psycho.
A hand pats my shoulder and I wake up, thinking we’ve arrived at the dorm. Instead, we’re in front of a plane.
Maybe I drank too much or I’m imagining we’re in the airport.
Killian appears at my door, his face closed, looking like a dark lord with a taste for little girls. “Time to go.”
“Go where?” I ask, half-spooked, half-drunk.
His index finger taps the door. “Home.”
31
KILLIAN
“Tell me you’re kidding.”
“I’m not sober enough for your games, Killian.”
“We’re really flying. Oh my God, what the hell is wrong with you?”
“I’m calling the police. Can we call the police from the air? Hello, officer, I’m being kidnapped by a crazy psycho.”
“I can’t believe Annika gave you my passport. You threatened her, didn’t you?”
“I don’t even like flying. It’s scary. I didn’t call Grandpa first. What if I never talk to him again?”
“If I die, I’ll turn into a scary ghost and haunt the hell out of you, prick. I’ll live in your nightmares.”
“Gareth, do something!”
That, in a nutshell, was the word vomit Glyndon graced us with during the flight. Her sense of panic grew with every minute and so did her imagination.