The Wrong One [r&r please]

Gavin’s hands were over mine, my hands over the strings of an acoustic guitar, as he played along listlessly to the folk music coming from his radio. I wasn’t paying any attention to the sound emitting from the wood and wire. The only thing on my mind was the smell of him and the beating of his heart that I could feel through the back of my shirt. He pressed his lips up to my neck and the familiar chills went through my spine.
“Tell me a secret,” Gavin whispered into my ear. His breath is hot and ashy like the wick of a candle once it’s been blown out. The comfort leaves and all that remains is a stale smell that you can’t get rid of. I tried not to focus on it. I focused on the rough carpet under my folded legs, tried to focus on the shaking of the metal wires under my fingers. But nothing held my attention like Gavin.
“I don’t tell my secrets.” I choose my words wisely. Gavin has a way of knowing exactly what I mean when I talk. He took his hand away from mine and set the guitar on the floor.
“You can tell me,” he said. He grabs my hands, holding them between his like precious treasure. I hate it when he looks at me that way, forcing our eyes to meet. Gavin knows every part of me without my secrets because of those moments. He sees right through me. I wish that I can say the same, that when I look into his sunken brown eyes I know everything about him. But I am weak, and he isn’t. He shakes his head to toss a strand of greasy hair from his face, and I take him in. I would stare at him all day if I could, if it meant that he didn’t have to stare at me in return. I traced his cheekbones all the way up to his ears, around the circles that encased his eyes, and down his hallowed nose. He leaned in to kiss me, but I leaned back.
“I can’t tell anyone,” I told him. He shakes his head defiantly. He reached onto the nightstand behind him and grabbed a black marker.
“Write it down.” He placed the marker on the carpet between us. I stared at the white cylinder, holding so many unspoken words between us. There was no way to measure the things we had said to each other, but the weight of the things we hadn’t said threatened to suffocate us. I pushed the marker with the tip of my finger, watching the secrets rock in the wave of our emotions. I wished for the courage to ask him why he said that he loved me when he refused to break up with his girlfriend, a girlfriend who didn’t really love him. I wanted to tell him that he was the first boy that I had ever loved and that it killed me to see him destroy himself. But I was a coward.
“You tell me a secret,” I said. I expected him to abandon his game, and let me off.
Gavin grabbed the marker and my hand, turning it over to look at my palm. He started to write on my hand, sending chills up my arm with each stroke. At the end, he closed the marker and stood up. He turned away from me to examine the posters on his wall.
Everyone hates me. Gavin’s writing sprawled across my hand. I stared at the lines in my palm, feeling the muscles in my stomach tighten. “That’s not true,” I said out loud. Gavin shook his head wordlessly, pointing at the marker that was lying desolate on the carpet. I got the marker off the floor and crawled over to his closet where a mirror hung. Gavin was still facing the opposite wall, refusing to look at me. With shaking hands I wrote I on my forehead and hate on the other. Staring at the cheek that was still clean, the lines around my face blurred and I watched Gavin. He moved nervously, putting his hands in his pockets and then taking them out. I quickly scrawled myself on the other cheek and got up. Without saying a word, I pulled Gavin’s arm and turned him to face me. He walked forward and put his hand on my cheek; one palm over hate. He pulled me into a kiss and I gave into the taste of ashes and regret.
We were on the floor, kissing.
It was that familiar feeling, where the pit of your stomach suddenly becomes your heart and you lose all control of your emotions. I could taste the faint chalkiness of cocaine on his top lip. I began to think that Gavin was my drug of choice. While he snorted little white lines I inhaled his white lies, his promises that she would be done and it would be us. Forever. Because I knew Gavin like no one else and because I understood what was truly inside him, in a way that she never would. I knew this because he told it to me. He whispered it again as he laid my back against the carpet, sunlight coming in through the blinds casting hot stripes across our bodies. He would be the death of me I was sure. I had to give into him.
I pushed him back. “Why?” He didn’t respond although he knew exactly what I was asking. He sat back against his nightstand, biting his lip.
“She doesn’t want to change me. She loves me the way I am.”
“Do you love her?”
“That’s not important.”
“It’s very very important,” I said. I felt the tears building up behind my eyes threatening to pour out over my cheeks. I wanted to hide.
“I know that I love you,” he said. He leaned into me, his face just inches from mine. “We can make everything better,” he said. He was staring into my eyes, knowing me. That was it. Gavin knew my soul and there was no way that I could hide from him. I didn’t want to hide from him. We were kissing again, and he had succeeded in unbuttoning my jeans.
It happened there, amongst his dirty jeans and cocaine remnants. I stayed silent through his sweaty mumblings, his eyes closed so that he never once looked at me. I began to wish that someone had warned me. Love isn’t enough to save you.
When it was over Gavin put his jeans back on without a word. He grabbed a cigarette from his nightstand, lighting it without offering me one. I probably wouldn’t have accepted it, my hands were shaking too much to hold anything. I wanted to cry, to let him know that he had broken me. Maybe that would make him happy and the withdrawal stages could begin.
I slipped on my clothes to the soundtrack of his inhales. I didn’t want to think about what it was like with her, if it was different or better. The more time I spent in that room the more the demons would start to haunt me. I had to get up and get out. I did just that, knowing I would come back, just not how long it might take this time.