With all the near-misses we’ve had, I’ve almost become numb to the danger of our position.
There’s only so many times you can face down death without wanting to open your arms to him out of sheer exhaustion.
25
Cat
Dean corners me again outside the dining hall. I tried to come to dinner late to avoid him, but apparently he’s been waiting out here for over an hour.
“Leave me alone,” I say, trying to push past him.
“No,” he says. “Not until you talk to me.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“But I have something to say to you.”
I turn to face him, fully annoyed.
“And it’s what you want that matters, isn’t it, Dean?”
It’s hard to look at him, because the handsomeness of his face never fails to work its subversive magic on me, even when my stomach is still clenched up in knots and my heart is still aching from a weekend of bawling my eyes out.
Dean is bad for me. I’ve known that from the beginning.
And yet my body craves him like fresh oxygen. I’m already missing the taste of his mouth and the feel of his hands on my flesh.
“You hurt me, Dean,” I tell him quietly. “You really hurt me.”
“I know,” he says. “And . . .” He swallows, as if he’s choking on something. “And I’m sorry,” he says in a strangled tone.
I almost want to laugh.
It sounds like he’s never apologized in his life.
He looks ridiculously relieved, as if he thought saying those words might kill him.
Unfortunately for him, no amount of apologies is going to wipe his insults out of my brain.
“I don’t care,” I say coldly.
“Why not?” he demands.
“Because you told me you loved me, and then you said I meant nothing to you. So your words are meaningless.”
Dean flinches, looking guilty.
“I know, Cat, but I was so angry—”
“You’re always angry,” I interrupt. “Always pouring out your rage on everyone around you. Well, it’s not going to be me anymore.”
“Cat, you can’t be serious—”
He’s trying to take my hand, but I yank it away from him.
“I’m very serious. Don’t make me hurt you again.”
Dean laughs, knowing as well as I do that I only managed to knee him because he wasn’t expecting it. I have no chance of actually injuring Dean. Only he has the power to hurt me.
And he did.
Too much and too well.
I push past him into the dining hall.
He accosts me again the next morning, apparently hoping that a good night’s sleep will have improved my mood.
It hasn’t.
I barely slept at all. I tossed and turned in an agony of indecision, until Rakel snarled at me to hold still or she’d duct-tape me to the bed.
I miss Dean. I miss him badly.
But I can’t stop remembering Lola’s taunts, and Dean’s insults following directly afterward, proving the truth of her words.
Just because he likes fucking you doesn’t mean he gives a shit about you . . .
He’s using you because you’ll do whatever he says . . .
And then, worst of all, echoing over and over in my brain:
You’re nothing to me.
I never really believed that Dean could love me.
What fragile hope I had was shattered as he raged at me in the tower.
Zoe’s right: love doesn’t hurt like this. Love doesn’t bring you to your knees with grief and misery.
“Cat, you’re being ridiculous!” Dean cries, annoyed at my continued resistance. “You can’t throw away everything we have over one fight.”
“I didn’t throw it away,” I say coldly. “You did.”
I can already see his temper rising, right now, when he’s supposed to be begging for forgiveness.
“You’re getting mad all over again, aren’t you!” I cry. “I bet you want to shout at me, don’t you?”
“Only because you’re being—” Dean raises his hands like he’s going to strangle me, and then abruptly cuts himself off.
I laugh in his face.
“Being what?” I demand. “Tell me again how awful I am.”
Dean takes several deep breaths, his lips pressed tightly together in a thin line.
It would be funny watching him try to control his temper, if it didn’t make me so sad at the same time.
“I’m sorry I insulted you, Cat,” he says. “I didn’t mean it. I was out of my mind.”
“So was I,” I say quietly. “But I’m sane again now.”
I walk to my first class, having missed breakfast by talking to him.