This is Not a Love Story Read Online Free

him he better watch his fucking back,” he hisses, taking out a golden lighter and watching the flames lick the pages of my drawing pad before he drops it to the ground.
    He mimes firing a gun as they both turn and run toward the waiting car.
    Twenty seconds later I’m still lying on the ground, watching the tiny flames destroy everything I’ve ever been proud of as Julian runs toward me, a baseball bat in his hand. Wild-eyed, he skids to the ground next to my head.
    “Are you hurt?”
    Blindly, I blink back tears and shake my head. I don’t want to get up.
    “Where are they?”
    GoneGoneGone , I sign over and over until Julian wraps his arms around my body to stop me.

F ULL OF E MPTY
     
    W HERE DID you get the bat? I write.
    I’m sitting listlessly on the wet ground, leaning against the bench I tried to jump earlier, dragging a stick through the mud to form the words. I’m not sure why I asked that question. I’m not sure I really care about the answer right now.
    “I panicked,” he says softly. “When I saw them… I didn’t have anything to… use. I looked around, but there was nothing. So… I smashed a back window in the cafe.” Absently he rubs at the drying blood across his knuckle. “I knew that Cassey kept a baseball bat under the counter in case there was ever any trouble, so I took it.”
    So that was the glass I heard smashing.
    Slowly, I break the stick into tiny frayed pieces. I don’t want to have this conversation anymore.
    But Julian carries on in a broken whisper. “I thought I was too late. I thought they’d hurt you. I’m sorry I took so long. I’m sorry about your pad.” He carefully picks up the worthless charred cover and flicks his thumb through the burned-away pages.
    I can’t take it. Abruptly, I snatch it out of his hands and fling it away, far away, out of sight.
    “I’ll get you another.”
    He’s watching me with this tender, concerned look on his face that I just can’t stand right now.
    Shut up, I want to scream at him. Just fucking shut up.
    I’m full of empty, useless rage. I want to hurt something.
    It starts to rain. Tiny droplets of rain that come in fast on the wind, like blasts of sea spray. Julian gets up and walks away to get the tarpaulin. I think he knows I won’t move for anything.
    “You’re pissed off,” he says as he pulls the faded blue sheet around us.
    That’s a fucking understatement. But I don’t glare at him, even though I want to. Instead I glare at my useless hands and pick at the loose stitching holding the corners of the sheet together.
    “Is it because… of your pad… or because of… me?”
    I shrug.
    We’ve never had an argument before. Normally, I just shut down. But I want… something. I want to sign you, it’s because of you , even though it’s not. It would never be because of him. He’s my best friend. But the frustration I feel makes me want to scream, even though I’ve never screamed in my life. I long for some howling release.
    I want a fight.
    He gets it, though. He thinks it is him—because I didn’t let him know it wasn’t.
    There’s this odd smile on his face that’s not really a smile at all, just a way to hold his face in a fixed position so he can hide his emotions. He fiddles with the laces of his borrowed shoes.
    These feelings inside me—everything that’s pissed me off today, all the lurking resentment at the world that I can usually crush—growl to be released. I want to tear the world apart into little pieces and watch the pieces burn.
    Did you get paid earlier? I sign.
    Earlier, as in when he got fucked. When he got hurt so badly he could barely walk and he bled for an hour after. I have to sign my question twice before he understands me, and my bitter frustration is just about boiling over. I want to sob.
    He nods and pulls out a crumpled twenty from his pocket. His hands are shaking. I wish he would just fucking fight me.
    You’ll have to give the money to Cassey for the window.
    He stares