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When I told him I loved him, I told him it was okay that he didn't feel
the same way. I wasn't lying. His lack of feelings didn't piss me off. What pissed me off was his insistence that he DID love
me when his actions said everything to the contrary.
It wasn't just that night, either. It became a habit, him telling
me that he loved me. It was a knee-jerk reaction, I suppose. Of course, running from me also became a knee-jerk reaction.
He
never said it first, but he always said it back. I knew better than to believe him, because he never stayed around long after
the exchange. He always had work, or dinner with his mother, or a Nintendo date with Nick.
We got into a fight about
it once, one morning when I was exhausted and he was trying to be cute. I flew off the handle and accused him of entertaining
me so we could keep having sex.
Sex used to be one of his vices. Needless to say, he wasn't thrilled at my accusation.
I
wasn't too thrilled with his hot-cold attitude, though, so we were even. We screamed like we were even, cursed like we were
even, and took each other down to a level playing field with venom-filled words.
"You know what your problem is?"
"No,
but I'm fucking sure you're going to tell me."
"You feel like you HAVE to tell a girl you love her just so
someone will stick around. You're so fucking scared of being alone that you'll say anything to keep a warm body in your bed."
"Or
maybe you're just fucking scared that someone could actually love you!"
"I might be, Alex, but you don't. You DON'T
love me. You don't even know what that word means, and neither do the thousand other girls you've said it to!"
"I've
got to go to work."
He slammed the door that day, slammed it so hard it shuddered back open before swinging closed
again. He could give our door epilepsy, and I couldn't do anything but sit there and mourn.
Because he didn't love
me, I used to wonder what was wrong with me. Maybe I wasn't blonde enough. Pretty enough. Busty enough. Maybe I didn't have
enough shirts that hugged my chest or skirts that bared my butt cheeks when I bent over. Maybe I just didn't have enough of
a desire to screw him over.
It didn't matter, really. At the end of the day, I knew he didn't love me. I knew that
HE knew he didn't love me.
I really fucking wish he did.
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