But Too Well

XXVIII : Verdict

How is everyone? Hope you're enjoying it so far. Let me know.

***

TELL ME SOMETHING.

How do you tell the most perfect guy in the world that you've officially cheated on him?

And what the hell do you tell him if he asks you why?

Because, the truth is, I have no idea why.

Caleb is, well, perfect. He's sweet, kind, smart, funny. He's definitely handsome, definitely attractive and? The sex is pretty amazing.

So why the hell would I ever, ever need anything more?

Oh, and he cares about me. He looks at me like he's the lucky one, like it's him that doesn't deserve me. My god. I'm officially a horrible, horrible person.

But, do I tell him?

No. No I do not.

You know whatever happens
today it's not your fault.
You're still amazing. Good luck.

Thanks babe. Means a lot. :)
I'll text you later. If things go
bad I will get drunk with your
brother after. Warning you now.

Thanks for the heads up. 😋
You'll be fine. It'll be fine.

Oh yeah, Ros? Will it?

Just shut up, okay?

I already have a massive headache. I don't need to feel you judging me, too.

Shit shit shit. I have made such a huge, colossal mess. And I have no clue what to do.

•§•

I TEXT DANIEL the same kind of thing, and he's sweet. And tired. And it makes me feel so bad, because isn't this all my fault?

No matter what Natalia tries to tell me, I don't think I'll ever really stop blaming myself. Because, as you already know, I suck.

And when I reach into my purse at work for an Advil, there is this annoying tug in my chest, because these pills are courtesy of a certain someone. Someone who I've mostly tried not to think about this morning.

Because, let's face it. Once I think of him, I think of his hands, his mouth. His dark, sinful eyes and that perfect jawline, the way he pressed me desperately against my door and whispered my name against my lips. The way I clutched his hard shoulders and the soft material of his shirt, the way that every inch of us touched and yet it wasn't nearly enough.

Mm. Hell. Oh, and his breath against my skin, and feeling him, wanting me, through the fabric of his jeans.

The way he looked at me, like I had taken something from him, but he didn't actually want it back. Just... shocked, that I managed to pry it away in the first place.

Yeah, so, that's why I can't think about him. Because, yes, I feel so damn guilty. But I also feel dazed, tingly. Because last night was the hottest, wrongest moment of my life, and I don't hate him for it, like I should. I just ache.

At lunch, I steel myself for disappointment. Plugging into the live broadcast, I watch. I see the three of them, sitting at the table, shoulders slouched tiredly. I listen, ashamed beyond belief, as the news anchors comment on how the evidence was shaky, how the defense could have done a better job. That people think he'll be convicted, guilty.