Page 97 of Use Me Up

I let out a noise of disbelief, and I can’t even be in the same room with him. I walk out, back towards my bedroom. On the one hand, I’m disgusted with him for saying that. On the other hand, it makes me feel whatever thing I feel for him, that messed-up thing where I crave him even though I know he’s bad for me, and I cannot have a baby with a man I feel like that about.

I know this.

Why haven’t I taken the pill already?

He’s talking. “You don’t have to, and I would never ask that of you, but it feels… the idea of it… it’s good.”

I turn on him. “Is it good, or is it like when you’re pretending to be my boss and telling me to let ugly men touch my boobs?” I say. “You’d love it if I’d let you make use of my body to grow your baby, because you love using me.”

“No,” he says. “I’m not being very grovel-ly, am I? I can do better.”

I put my hands on my hips, waiting.

He squares his shoulders. “I’m very, very sorry.”

I wait.

“It must have felt bad when you walked in on us like that.”

I wait.

“So, I’m sorry about that.”

And then, it is quiet.

“That’s it?” I say finally.

He shoves his hands into his pockets, making a face. “No, clearly, I can do better.”

“You don’t know how it felt,” I say, “because you never feel the way I feel, invisible and unimportant. And then you make me feel important, but then you rip it all away, because what do I matter to you, really, if you won’t choose me?”

“You’re not invisible,” he says, taking a step towards me. “You’re very important. I do choose you.”

“But it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like you don’t give a shit about me or my feelings and you only care about your own. It feels like you can’t be bothered to worry about me. Or your own mates, for fuck’s sake. It feels worse than bad.”

He bows his head. “Yeah, I know. I know that having me as a boyfriend is kind of a punishment. You deserve better than this, and I know that.”

“I do deserve better,” I say. “And I want you to feel bad, because I feel bad, and now you should feel bad, and I want you to suffer, at least a little, because that’s only fair.” I glare at him, and he looks really pathetic, actually, and kind of miserable, and it isn’t as satisfying as I hoped it would be. I throw up my hands. “Look, whatever, I forgive you.”

He raises his gaze and furrows his brow. “You shouldn’t, though. I mean, not yet. I mean, if you have a modicum of self-respect—”

“Well, that’s the thing, I don’t,” I say. “Have self-respect, that is. When it comes to you, I have none at all.”

“Okay, well, whatever. I hate myself, too,” he says. “It’s why we’re, you know, on the same level in some way.”

“Fuck you, I do not hate myself,” I say.

“I’m not saying I want you to have my baby, but if you wanted to, I would… it wouldn’t be bad.”

“Well,” I say, “I’m probably going to take the Plan B. After the date, I’m probably going to take it.”

“Okay,” he says.

I look at him.

He looks at me.

Moments pass.