Rich Love
The way she looked at me that last day — not with love, not even with hate, but with something worse.
Disappointment.
I’d been trying to drink her out of my system since school let out, but it never worked. Whiskey burned my throat, vodka left me numb, but nothing touched the ache in my chest. Nothing stopped the ghost of her voice whispering my name in the quiet.
I hated her.
That’s what I told myself. That’s what I told everyone.
But hate is just love with its teeth bared.
Emma was around more than usual.
She liked to play the girlfriend role when it suited her, draping herself across my couch, her perfume thick in the air, her laugh too sharp. She’d talk about the parties we’d hit next, a
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