I fly up the stairs after her, noticing the door is slightly ajar. Hesitating for a moment to listen, I half expect to hear her crying or packing a suitcase like a runaway kid. When I don’t hear either, I burst into her room. She’s not here but I pause to take in her room. Last time I set foot in here was three years ago, when I very first kissed her. We had just been promised to each other, and she had run off from the dining table the exact same way she did tonight. I’d followed her and found her sobbing, as if her heart had just been ripped out, and tried to talk some sense into her. I’d tried explaining it wasn’t that bad— that I wasn’t that bad—but the more I’d talked, the more upset she’d become. Her huge eyes flooded with tears which stuck to her long curly lashes, making her look so fucking vulnerable that I swore to myself I’d protect her from anything that ever tried to hurt her.
That was before she decided I was the person most likely to hurt her. When my words didn’t work, I’d given up and tried to convince her everything would be okay with my lips. It was my first kiss too, and I had no clue what I was doing.
As usual, I didn’t play it safe and went for it big time, my tongue invading her mouth and loving the way she tasted. I swear to God she kissed me back; I felt her shy tongue exploring my own until she pushed me away and screamed at me to get out.
That was the first time I was confused by Bella, and it wasn’t the last. Over the years, she’d messed with me, giving me secret looks and signals that she wanted me— wanted us— then shutting me down every time I responded to them.
Glancing around her room, I notice nothing has really changed in those three years. The place is tidier now, her clothes are all hung neatly on a rail wrapped in fairy lights rather than strung across the floor. Her desk is still piled high with books but they are neatly stacked and organised by the colors of their covers. No Goosebumps, I chuckle to myself.
Her bed is made with a neatly folded pink striped nightshirt on top of her pillow, and I pick up the flimsy fabric, lifting it to my nose and inhaling her scent: a perfect mix of sea salt, cool breeze, and tropical flowers. She smells like a vacation.
What the fuck am I doing smelling her clothes like some creeper? Realizing I probably shouldn’t be here, I toss the nightshirt back where it was and am about to smooth it out when my eyes land on a spotty hardback notebook.
I know it’s a journal because she’s always kept them. I used to tease her by snatching them from her and waving them around, threatening to read it while she jumped up and snatched it back. Of course, I never would because I’m not that guy. Correction, wasn’t that guy before my pretty brunette bookworm fucked around with my feelings like a cat with one of those little jingly balls or a feather.
Opening the page at random somewhere toward the back, my eyes scan the words.
My First Kiss.
He kissed me.
A thousand feelings awaken.
One single moment that changed everything.
The lips of a monster soft against my own.
Tidal waves coming home to the shore.
What is wrong with me?
I hate Hunter Ryan.
So why am I wanting more? ~B.B
What. The. Fuck.
It doesn’t make any sense. I scan the page for dates, doodles, any clue of when she wrote this. If the journal is an old one, why is it hidden under her fresh pajamas? Flipping the pages, my eyes can’t devour the words fast enough. She wanted more? Maybe then, but definitely not now, and why had she been so quick to push me away?
Untitled.
Some eyes tell a story
Of age, life or hurt
Some are a window
Displaying a person’s exact mood
Some eyes never meet others
Lone wolves always searching for something
And some are meant for another
To look at one person and shine
Come alive, fill with love, dance.
His eyes?
They were meant for me. ~B.B
Meant for me? I mean, she’s right, but if she’s so confident in my feelings for her, then why the hell does she treat me like such a monster?
Footsteps interrupt my thoughts and I slam the book shut but don’t put it down in enough time. Bella’s eyes land on it sees it in my hands as soon as she enters the room.
She charges at me like an angry rhino and shoves me with both hands on my chest. Snatching the journal from my hands, she doesn’t say anything at first; she doesn’t have to because it’s written all over her face.
She’s about to explode.
I wait for it; I could have filled the gap with an apology, but I’m scared any sudden sound or movement will send her over the edge, so it keep quiet.
“Get out,” she snarls at me, although I have a feeling if her family weren’t downstairs, she would be roaring at me right now.
I don’t move, knowing if I leave, then everything written in the journal— all the shit we both need to talk about—will be left unspoken. I don’t say anything either, in case it makes things worse.
“Get out, get out, get out,” she hisses, yelling in a hushed tone.
Finally, I find my voice. “I’m sorry,” I start, throwing my hands up in the air in apologetic surrender.
“Sorry? You sneak into my room, read my journal, and you’re sorry?”
“I was looking for you,” I try to explain. “I wanted to check that you’re okay, you seemed upset.”
“Upset? Upset would be putting it nicely. I’m more than upset! I’m so fucking angry at you right now, I can’t even look at you.”
Does she really mean that? Because she still hasn’t taken her eyes off me.
“I get it. You’re pissed I read your diary but those poems. I really think we need to talk things through.”
Here’s the part where you admit your feelings for me, and we can finally call a truce on this whole enemy thing we have going on and have a shot at something real.
“They were nothing to do with you.”
“Liar.”
“You were never supposed to read them.” She fumbles with the collection of words she’s written about me, clutching it to her chest by her heart. Ironic, really, considering all the words she’s poured into it are meant for me.
Is she trying to protect the words, her heart, or both? She doesn’t need to protect either because we both know I’d never do anything to hurt her, no matter how much I want to. Not really hurt her. Maybe teach her a lesson or two, which would be thoroughly deserved and justified, but hurting Bella would be like sticking pins in my own eyeballs until they bled. Almost impossible and excruciatingly painful.
“Please. Just go.” Her voice cracks, and she’s on the verge of tears.
I don’t want to upset her, but at the same time, I finally have her attention. Breaking into her room and reading her journal might not have been the best thing to do, but if it gives me a nanosecond with the real Bella, instead of the prissy bitch I usually get, it is worth it.
“Okay,” I agree. “I’ll go if that’s what you really want. But, if I do, that’ll be it, Bella. No more games. We break off the wedding. I tell my parents to find me another bride, you tell yours you’re not going through with the marriage, and I walk out of your life… for good.”