ass, yeah, right.” John grabs a taco and goes after them.
It isn’t until they’re all back in the living room that I look down and notice all the food is gone and I’m standing there alone like some fucking servant while they go entertain their dates.
Shame washes over me in a dizzying wave. I can’t believe after all I offer him, after everything I’ve done to make him happy, he’d treat me like some slut whose sole purpose is to keep him sexed up and fed.
If it walks like a slut and talks like a slut…
My eyes burn and I grab my keys and purse. This is stupid, and the last thing I need to top off this humiliation is to cry in front of them.
I move to leave and remember my backpack is in Clifford’s room. I have to walk through the living room to get it, but chances are those pieces of shit are too involved in their game to notice me anyway.
I stomp through the living room, and other than a quick shout that I’m blocking the screen, they don’t seem to notice me. I shove a few books in my backpack, zip it up, throw it on, and then storm back out through the front door. Tears sting my eyes as I shut the door behind me to the sound of them laughing at the game and not a single mention of my leaving.
Thirst for booze to numb the humiliation flares in my throat, and I hope we have a bottle of something at home because risking a hangover tomorrow is better than feeling this.
I climb into my car, fire up the engine…
And wait.
Scowling at the front door, I don’t move, delaying my escape to see if Clifford comes for me.
Time passes; the door remains closed.
Nothing.
I slam on the gas and head home, beating myself up for being so stupid.
My mom has always said, when someone shows you what they think about you, believe them. It’s not what a person says that matters; it’s what they show. And although Clifford always says he cares about me, his actions certainly don’t show it.
Numbly, I drive to my complex, and when I don’t hear Clifford’s muscle car pull up behind me, my self-hatred intensifies.
I walk to my apartment in a blur of tears and head straight for the freezer. Pulling out a bottle of cherry vodka, I screw off the cap and tilt it to my lips.
“Whoa…rough night?” Mindy’s tucked under a blanket on the couch in the dark with the only source of light the flickering of the television.
I cringe as the liquid paints my throat in fire and then morphs to numbness. “I’ve had better.”
She sits up and clicks off the remote, plunging her into total darkness before she turns on the lamp at her side. “You wanna talk about it?”
I throw back another swig of vodka. “Let’s see. Do I want to talk about what an idiot I am? How I manage to lay myself down to be a doormat for men who could give a flying fuck about me? No. Not really.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. It’s all part of the learning process.”
If only that were true, but something tells me I’ll always be this girl—the one who falls backwards for anyone who offers to use his dick on me.
Oh wow, the vodka is kicking in.
I cross to the living room and drop into the overstuffed chair. The icy bottle hangs from my fingers, and I offer it to Mindy.
She takes it and throws back a healthy chug before handing it back. I take another shot.
“Ax, this is what college is for. You get out there, screw whoever you want, however you want, and then when the time comes to settle down, you’ll know it. You’ll walk into a committed relationship with the knowledge that you thoroughly played the field and exhausted all your curiosities.” She sits back with a proud grin.
“It’s not that easy for me. I get…attached.”
“Yeah, that happens,” she says sadly.
“The worst part is I’m so sick of being walked on, and yet I continue to put myself through it. I’m lying to myself about what I have with these guys, glorifying it or something, when it’s really so simple. I give. They take.” I toss back another gulp and start to feel a little better, still pathetic, but at least the burn of humiliation has now been tempered with a warm belly full of booze.
A heavy pounding on our door breaks