Read Online Gray by Pete Wentz, James Montgomery - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pete Wentz, James Montgomery
Ads: Link
with you?! Her face gets redder and redder. Her entire body begins to shake, and great rivers of tears flow down Her cheeks, landing on the floor in a series of epic splashes. She wraps the sheet around Her naked body and begins sobbing, asking, Why would you do that?! Don’t you trust me?! I just lie there in the bed, watching Her mouth move and Her body shake. The years drip away with each tear, the letters and I love you s are shaken loose with each convulsion, and suddenly I can’t summon the energy to do this, not now, and not ever again. We are a dying star in its last cosmic throes. We are a ship with its hull pierced, the arctic water pouring in through the gash. It’s over. Because the truth is, I didn’t trust Her. I haven’t for a while now, for about a million stupid reasons—the smoking and the moving of my shampoo, the overturned cell phone and the hurried long-distance calls, like there was somewhere she had to be or someone she had to be with —and one real reason, one that made me stop calling, and the one that had buried itself in my subconscious and had been gnawing away at my insides for months now: that she didn’t believe in me.
In the end—and this was certainly the end —it wasn’tabout who she was (or wasn’t) fucking behind my back, it wasn’t about the secrets she kept from me, it wasn’t about the shampoo. It was something much deeper and more profound than all that. She had doubted my abilities and my dreams and my intentions. She looked at my life as a folly, a children’s crusade. She didn’t have faith in me to write the great rock-and-roll album of our time, to make art and save souls and, sure, maybe even get rich and famous and have hallways lined with platinum plaques. So she kept offering me alternatives—apartments and degrees and fucking Berkeley—when she knew I didn’t want any of them, and she did it because she knew I would fail. She was certain of it, but didn’t have the guts to tell me. Secretly, she probably hoped I’d crash and burn, come back to Her broken and ready to be put out to pasture. That was the breakdown. That was the disconnect. She didn’t trust in me, so why should I trust Her?
My psychiatrist would tell me that I was projecting my insecurities onto Her, that I was frightened of success, but terrified of the alternative. That, subconsciously, I had doomed myself to fail, no matter what the outcome, so I was determined to control at least one aspect of my life: Her. Even if that meant pushing Her away, even if it meant denying myself the one thing that actually made me happy. He was probably right, but at this moment I didn’t feel like listening. She was the fucking anchor that kept me tied to this town, to this life; she was dragging me down and she needed to be cut loose. So that’s exactly what I did.
I probably could’ve done it differently, could’veexplained everything to Her, or sighed that I just couldn’t do this anymore, gathered my clothes, and left. But I’ve never been one to pass up a grand gesture. So as she stands there wrapped in a bedsheet, shaking and red-faced and betrayed, sobbing, Why don’t you trust me? What did I do? I sit up in bed, grab Her phone off the table, and whip it across the room. It sails by Her head and shatters against the wall in a million triumphant little pieces, circuit boards and keys shining for an instant in the mid-morning light, then disappearing into the darkness. It was like a fireworks display.
She gasps and falls to the floor, sitting there for a second with a dumb look on Her face, like a baby who’s tumbled over and is looking around the room for a sympathetic eye. Then she starts picking up the pieces of the phone, putting bits of glass and wire into a little pile in Her lap. She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even look at me, just keeps gathering up the remnants of Her phone, combing through the slivers of plastic as if somewhere in there she’ll find the reason this kid she
In the end—and this was certainly the end —it wasn’tabout who she was (or wasn’t) fucking behind my back, it wasn’t about the secrets she kept from me, it wasn’t about the shampoo. It was something much deeper and more profound than all that. She had doubted my abilities and my dreams and my intentions. She looked at my life as a folly, a children’s crusade. She didn’t have faith in me to write the great rock-and-roll album of our time, to make art and save souls and, sure, maybe even get rich and famous and have hallways lined with platinum plaques. So she kept offering me alternatives—apartments and degrees and fucking Berkeley—when she knew I didn’t want any of them, and she did it because she knew I would fail. She was certain of it, but didn’t have the guts to tell me. Secretly, she probably hoped I’d crash and burn, come back to Her broken and ready to be put out to pasture. That was the breakdown. That was the disconnect. She didn’t trust in me, so why should I trust Her?
My psychiatrist would tell me that I was projecting my insecurities onto Her, that I was frightened of success, but terrified of the alternative. That, subconsciously, I had doomed myself to fail, no matter what the outcome, so I was determined to control at least one aspect of my life: Her. Even if that meant pushing Her away, even if it meant denying myself the one thing that actually made me happy. He was probably right, but at this moment I didn’t feel like listening. She was the fucking anchor that kept me tied to this town, to this life; she was dragging me down and she needed to be cut loose. So that’s exactly what I did.
I probably could’ve done it differently, could’veexplained everything to Her, or sighed that I just couldn’t do this anymore, gathered my clothes, and left. But I’ve never been one to pass up a grand gesture. So as she stands there wrapped in a bedsheet, shaking and red-faced and betrayed, sobbing, Why don’t you trust me? What did I do? I sit up in bed, grab Her phone off the table, and whip it across the room. It sails by Her head and shatters against the wall in a million triumphant little pieces, circuit boards and keys shining for an instant in the mid-morning light, then disappearing into the darkness. It was like a fireworks display.
She gasps and falls to the floor, sitting there for a second with a dumb look on Her face, like a baby who’s tumbled over and is looking around the room for a sympathetic eye. Then she starts picking up the pieces of the phone, putting bits of glass and wire into a little pile in Her lap. She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even look at me, just keeps gathering up the remnants of Her phone, combing through the slivers of plastic as if somewhere in there she’ll find the reason this kid she
Similar Books
