by S. L. Scott
He drops his head down as he closes his eyes. “Please. I’m begging you to give me another chance. I won’t screw up again. I promise to—”
Touching his cheek, I feel the scruff from his unshaven face. He looks up and I see the dark circles under his eyes. I step closer, wanting to hold and comfort him, but keep a distance between us. “You can’t make promises that you don’t know you can keep—”
“I loved you.” His words are adamant, full strength, full belief in what he’s saying. “I love you still. I was tainted and a stupid twenty-three year old.”
“You’re only twenty-seven now. Has that much really changed, Dylan?”
“Everything has changed. My life is only a life when you’re in it. Please don’t go with him. Don’t move in. Don’t give up on us or the possibility of what we can be. I know you feel something for me. I can feel it now. I see it in your eyes.”
I look away, trying to block out his pleas. “I need to go. Austin’s waiting for me.”
“No!” Dylan’s hand runs anxiously through his wet hair. “What do I have to do to prove that I love you, to show how sorry I am? Tell me and I’ll do it. Anything.”
My thoughts are jumbling, so I close my eyes briefly to clear them, but it doesn’t work. The tears are already flowing. My heart is breaking, aching, and the words just come out. “You could have left me some damn coffee!”
“What? What does that mean?” I walk around him and head for the car, but he grabs my arm. “Jules, don’t leave. Don’t leave me for him.”
I turn back around on that comment. “Is that what this is about? Is this about winning for you? My fucking heart is on the line and torn in two and you just want to win?” My anger wells inside, firing me up, and I shove him in the chest, then I hit him, pounding his chest as I shout, “I hate you. I hate that you’re doing this to me. I’m just a game to you, a toy for you to fuck around with. I hate you, Dylan Somers.”
Grabbing my flailing arms, he stills me abruptly. “Those are lies. You’re lying to yourself, so you can walk away from your true feelings. You were never a game to me. You aren’t a toy. You’re my heart, my soul, fuck this.”
He kisses me… And I let him.
ALWAYS INTERESTED IN the arts, S. L. Scott, grew up painting, writing poetry and short stories, and wiling her days away lost in a good book and the movies.
With a degree in Journalism, she continued her love of the written word by reading American authors like Salinger and Fitzgerald. She was intrigued by their flawed characters living in picture perfect worlds, but could still debate that the worlds those characters lived in were actually the flawed ones. This dynamic of leaving the reader invested in the words, inspired Scott to start writing with emotion while interjecting an underlying passion into her own stories.
Living in the capital of Texas with her family, Scott loves traveling and avocados, beaches, and cooking with her kids. She’s obsessed with epic romances and loves a good plot twist. She dreams of seeing one of her own books made into a movie one day as well as returning to Europe. Her favorite color is blue, but she likens it more toward the sky than the emotion. Her home is filled with the welcoming symbol of the pineapple and finds surfing a challenge though she likes to think she’s a pro.
Scott welcomes your notes to [email protected]