“You thought you would give me what; an explanation, an excuse? Because so far you haven’t given me any of those.” Her mind was screaming at her to shut up, to push him until he was no longer standing in her living room and close the door on his face like she would have gotten to do had he not decided to sneak into her apartment and give her the surprise of her life. Or one of them. But instead, she looked at him for a very long minute, silence filling the room. “I just don’t get it. I don’t understand how you could think so little of me after all those years. I don’t understand how you thought it was better to leave a note than telling me it was over and you were going away. We were friends for fuck’s sake. You just don’t walk out on your friends like that. You don’t do that to someone you supposedly love.” Out of all the things, that was what hurt the most. Knowing that all those years of friendship meant nothing to him. Because they were friends before they were a couple. And they were friends while they were a couple. And even if it would have broken her heart she would have let him go if that’s what he needed. They could have worked it out. They could have gone back to being just Gerry and Adriana, not Gerry and Adriana. Their friendship could have been saved. But now they were just two strangers with a shared past. And that was one of the saddest things two people could be. It hurt as if a part of her had been ripped away. Like a healing wound someone cuts open before it had the chance to properly close. Her eyes fell to the floor and she shook her head, teeth digging into the inside of her check to keep the tears at bay. “No, I missed you. You had my number. You knew where I was. You could have called, send a text or a fucking letter. But you didn’t do any of those things. So don’t come here and tell me you fucking missed me.” The worst part was that she understood it, the need to scape, the urge to leave everything behind and start fresh somewhere else.
“Don’t hurt myself like this?” she asked, darkly, digging her nails further into the skin. “Would you rather I hurt you? Would you rather I broke things?” Grabbing a plate she let it fall to the floor, the china broking in one thousand tiny pieces, a glass followed, and then other until the carpet was shining with the remainings of what used to be a dish set. “Are you fucking happy now? Or do you want me to throw things at you?” The lasagna flew in the air towards him, along with the bottle of wine and a chair. And the table. And everything she could grab until her strength abandoned her and she fell on her knees, crystal digging into the skin. “I can’t do this. Leave."
He considered leaving, but this was not the way of Gerry Drew. He was not one to leave when it was appropriate. He let himself in to places. He stayed until he got what he wanted. He hit and he screamed and he fucked and he cried. He was, for the most part, the idiot alpha male villain in every coming of age movie. He was Gerry, and she was Adriana. They weren’t docile people.
“oh god dammit Adriana. Light yourself on fire, why don’t you?” He fussed as the bottle of chardonnay broke on the wall just to his right. He stepped out from behind the flipped table to see her on her knees, asking him to go.
He huffed, rolling his eyes as he headed toward the kitchen entry way. She could have mistaken him for finally leaving, but he was just going for his backpack and the first aid kit within it. Gerry was fuming, he’d pumped himself up for a week about how he deserved what she had for him and he would take it in silence. Or at least in a calm, collected manner.
He knew what he was going to next was going to get him hit. Or cursed at and questioned even more. With some struggle, he wrestled her fingers from her palm, exposing the fresh injury. God, he hated blood. He was now kneeling next to her. “You’re wrapping this or I’m wrapping this and then I’ll go.” Probably true. He loved her, he had loved her, he loves her. She hates him in some deep way he can hardly fathomed because he had never been wronged. She had never, would have never, wronged him. He knew that. He knew that he had fucked up. But we cannot take back our fuckups despite how much we want to.
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