by KV Rose
40
Alex
I’ve got approximately a dozen missed texts from a dozen different numbers asking me what I’m doing for break. I put my phone on silent, open my music app, and then flip it over.
MANTRA by Saint Slumber plays alongside the sounds of frying bacon on the back burner as I scramble some eggs on Zara’s stove.
I could’ve taken her to my house for the week. Eli was supposed to be away, for a wrestling tournament. But we haven’t exactly been on speaking terms lately and I’m moving out at the end of the semester.
So, Zara’s apartment it is.
It’s nice anyway. Cozy, and shockingly, there were eggs and bacon in the fridge. Probably Kylie’s, who seems to have her head on straight. I’ll have to restock their food before I go back home.
I glance down the hall. The door to Zara’s room is wide open, but I’ve got to step back into the living room to actually see her, the pan of eggs in my hand, spatula in the other. She’s huddled up under her green comforter, a tendril of her white-blonde hair splayed against the grey pillow.
Relief washes over me, and I recognize the feeling as stupid. She’s not better yet. Not even close.
I already confiscated all her shit. She even had a bag in the vent in her bathroom, but that’s gone now, too.
After I got that call from Jax, of all fucking people last night.
My chest tightens.
I step back to the stove, slam the pan down a little harder than I meant to.
I don’t want to think about last night. About what a fucking moron I am for doing this. For being here with her.
She’s not my mother.
She’s not my responsibility.
I turn off the burners on the stove, the bacon completely fried, which is exactly how I like it.
I run my hand through my hair and lean against the counter. The smell of bacon and eggs is second only to the scent of flowers and coffee that seems to permeate the air in this little apartment.
I try to think about how all of this happened, but it’s like her scent is embedded in my brain and for some reason, she makes me fucking stupid. She makes it impossible to think.
God, I’m an idiot.
I should just call her mom. I should call the damn police. I should send Jax to prison. I should… I should do so many things besides what I’m doing right now. I’m in over my head, and I have no idea the extent of Zara’s addiction, besides knowing she clearly has one. I’ve tried to be blind to it all these months, but I saw it.
I saw it, and I never did shit about it until it pissed me off.
I turn to the stove, grab a piece of bacon from the pan and pop it in my mouth. I go to reach for another one, but I hear Zara’s footsteps, and turn to see her coming to a halt at the end of the hall, staring at me.
Seeing her messy waves like a lion’s mane around her face, her bleary eyes and those long, pale legs beneath my t-shirt, all thoughts of calling the cops or her mother or anyone at all vanish. I don’t know why I’m so fucking weak for this girl but I am.
No. I do fucking know. It was right around the first time she was drunk out of her fucking mind. It was at my house, a party, and she was sitting on the couch, her eyes fluttering closed. Some of my teammates were sitting around her, and I just thought, God, if they fucking touch her, I’ll kill them. There was something about her vulnerability in that moment…yeah. That shit softened me.
And her heart is so big. She pretends it isn’t, but God, it is.
Her heart is big, and she cares about me, and her mind is sharp and when she isn’t on drugs I fucking like her even more. Her quiet contemplation. Her obsession with fucking philosophy, of all goddamn things.
I like her more in the quiet. Not at the parties, but in the night, when she’s against me. In the mornings, when it’s just us.
I like that version of Zara so much more.
She needs me.
“Good morning, princess.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the doorway, her bottom lip stuck out in a pout. She does not look like she thinks it’s a ‘good morning’ at all. Behind me, my phone is still playing music and I reach my hand out and turn it down, pocketing my phone.
“You’re still here,” she finally says, her voice groggy with sleep.
I try not to take offense to that. “Yep.”
She sighs, runs a hand over her face. I see her wince and I don’t know why at first, but then I realize she hit her nose ring.
“You do that a lot,” I tell her, tapping the side of my own nose.
Her pale cheeks bloom pink and she rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile on her pretty mouth.
I jerk my chin toward the stove. “Come eat.”
“I’m not hungry.” She looks down at her bare feet, flexing her toes. They’re painted pink but the polish is chipped.
I drum my fingers on the counter at my back. “It’s only Saturday, princess. You’ve got a full week of me living here.” I look around the little living room, knowing I’ve got my work cut out for me. Knowing I won’t be able to keep her in here the full seven days. “Might as well start by having breakfast, don’t you think?”
She chews on her lip, still flexing her toes. Even her goddamn toes are pretty. Which gives me an idea.
“Let’s go get a pedicure.”
She lifts her head to stare at me as if I’ve asked her to shoot up heroin.
I shrug. “Get dressed. I’ll take you.”
“You want to get a pedicure?” she asks me, skepticism laced in her tone.
“Aw, don’t be sexist, princess. I keep my toes groomed, too. It’s my favorite part of the off season,” I admit. “Working out all those blisters.”
“Did you paint your nails pink, too? Because if I’d have known…”
I cock my head and shrug. “Would that be a problem?”
She laughs a little, running a hand through her hair. “Alex Cardi, quarterback and jock asshole, got pink pedicures?”
All right, this has gone too far. “No, for your information, I did not.” I grab another piece of bacon and throw it in my mouth, chewing and swallowing it down as I walk over to her.
She eyes me with suspicion, but when I throw an arm around her shoulders, she doesn’t scream or shove me off or back away. It seems as if she’s already resigned to this shit.
I tug her close to me, loving her scent.
“You can get all the work done without the polish, you know? The nail people love it, too, even though my legs get cramped as hell in those massage chairs. They weren’t built for pro athletes, apparently.”
I pull her down the hall, toward her room. Reluctantly, she walks with me.
“You’re not a pro athlete.”
“Nope. I’ll be something less flashy and more deviant. A lawyer.”
She looks up at me, twisting under my arm. “Lawyers shouldn’t hang out with addicts.”
“It’s why I’m here to cure you, so when we’re married and shit, I can go to work without worrying about you.”
She tenses under my arm and my heart clenches, wondering why the fuck I said that. And what she’s going to say to it.
She ducks under my arm and stands in front of me, eyes meeting mine. Even lined with red and smeared with her stupid eyeliner, the aqua blue and green of her eyes is mesmerizing.
“Alex.” Her brow furrows as she stares up at me, sun streaming in through the window at her back. We’re standing at the foot of her bed, the green comforter halfway on the floor from when she rolled out of bed a few minutes ago. “You don’t have to do this.”
I glance at the messy sheets, imagine they’re still warm from her body. I think of how she felt against me all night.
“I do, though.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “You don’t. This isn’t your problem.”
I grit my teeth, curl my hands into fists. How many times do I have to tell her that she is exactly my problem?
“Zara. I’m n
ot leaving. Not until you’re better.”
“That’s not fair. This is my apartment. You have no fucking right to be here.”
“Haven’t you heard, beautiful? Life isn’t fair.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fuck you, Alex.”
“Whatever.” I turn away from her to head back into the kitchen. This isn’t up for debate. I’m not leaving.
She grabs my arm though, yanks me around. “Don’t be an asshole.” I know she knows what she’s doing because her eyes flash with that last word, and her pink lips turn up into a smile as she bats her lashes at me.
“Zara. Don’t do this.”
“I want you to leave. I’m not the only one with a problem, you know. That temper you’ve got? Fucking ridiculous. Why don’t you work on yourself before you—”
I feel that temper rising. My body gets hot all over, my chest, especially. My pulse is flying, and I want to explode. “I’m not the one with the fucking problem, Zara!” I pull out of her grip, flinging her arm off me. “You are! You’re the one getting high every damn day, you’re the one fucking my best friend. You’re the one with the fucking drug dealer who is worried about you!” I lean down close to her. “You are the addict. You are the fucking problem. I’m not fucking up my life. You fucking are!”
She’s still gripping my arm, glaring up at me.
“Let go of me, Za.”
She only squeezes my arm harder, her nails digging into my skin. She steps closer, until I can feel her body heat. Smell her scent. “Get the fuck out of my house.”
I bite my tongue. “Let go of me.”
She doesn’t.
We both know I could shove her away if I wanted to, but I think she expects that, so I just slide my hands into the pockets of my shorts and glare at her.
“You don’t want to let me into your brain, you clearly hate mine, so what the fuck are we doing?” she spits at me.
“Shut the fuck up and let me out of this fucking room.”
She tips her head back and laughs and I want to wrap my fingers around her pale fucking throat. “I will,” she says, dipping her chin down to glare at me, “as soon as you agree to leave.” She lets go of me, and her words venomous when she says, “If you don’t let me go, you see this fucking scar?” She pulls up my shirt she’s wearing, points at those scars on her thighs. The ones I’ve been too scared to ask about. “If you don’t leave, I’ll tell everyone you did that. Now, get the fuck out.”
“What the hell happened?” I ask her, because now is the time, above all others. Now is the fucking time, when she blackmails me with them. I take a step closer to her and see some of the defiance leave her eyes. She’s tall, but I’ve got close to a fucking foot on her. “Tell me how you really got them.”
She drops the shirt over her thighs. “You never noticed. You never fucking cared.”
Stupid. For a smart girl, she can be so fucking stupid. “No.” I grab her shirt—my shirt—and spin her around, so she’s against the wall. Her breath leaves her in a rush and rage colors her face as she grabs my hand, but I don’t let go of her. “Don’t put that on me. I’ve cared about you from day fucking one. Way more than you ever cared about yourself. I’ve noticed everything about you. The scar on your thighs. The one on your hip.” She gasps at that. “Now, you can tell me how you really got them, or you can keep that shit to yourself, but we aren’t discussing me. I love you, Zara, and I always fucking have. That’s not up for debate and neither is me leaving.”
Roughly, I let her go and step back.
“And don’t even think about running. I swear to God, Zara, if you do, your ass will be back in rehab so fucking fast you won’t even know how the fuck it happened.”
“Why would my mom trust you?” she spits at me, her eyes narrowed. “Why would she believe you over me?”
“I got Kylie to trust me, didn’t I? Kylie fucking Jones, and I can guarantee you we do not have a damn thing in common. Don’t test me, Zara. Don’t fucking test me, because I’ll come out on top every time.”
41
Zara
I pace around the living room, Alex is sitting at the table with his back to me, his feet propped up on the chair beside him, his phone in his hand.
Fucking asshole.
He’s just a fucking asshole.
There’s no more daylight outside of the open blinds in the living room, and I don’t know how the fuck the day has passed like this, in fucking silent rage, but it sure as shit has. He made lunch, burgers without buns because we didn’t have fucking bread, and frozen French fries. I ate none of it and ordered dinner. Chinese.
Didn’t eat that either, even though the take-out bags are still on the kitchen table and it smells damn good.
But fuck him.
Fuck his food, too.
I took a shower, checked under the vent in the bathroom, but he stole my shit from there too. He has no idea how much money he’s flushed down the fucking toilet, or wherever he put it. He doesn’t care either, because the asshole doesn’t work anyway and will never have to. He’s made out of God money, which is almost hilarious.
I want to needle him about his parents and their divorce and the headlines in North Carolina’s local news about his father having an affair with dozens of women, but I also don’t want to listen to his stupid voice.
I know, logically, that part of my irritation stems from the fact I’m off Adderall for the first time in weeks, maybe even months. I glance at the fridge, think about opening the freezer and swigging down some coconut rum, but I know he’ll start bitching about it and I don’t have the energy to deal with him.
Speaking of energy, my fucking headache would probably go away if I drank coffee.
I march past him, flicking my braids over my shoulder and pulling out the coffee and the filter from the cabinet. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t say shit as I fill up the machine, measure out the grounds.
But when he says, “It’s a little late for coffee, don’t you think?” just as I start brewing a few cups, I spin around to face him.
He’s got a stupidly cocky smirk on his stupid face and I want to punch him.
“Fuck off.” I know it’s a lame retort, but I don’t care. “Am I not allowed caffeine now, huh? I mean, I know that shit is a drug too, but it seems no one gives a shit about that!” I throw up my hands, just raging now. It has very little to do with Alex and a lot to do with the fact that I want some legal meth in my system.
Goddammit. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t do real meth, but it’s all the fucking same, isn’t it? One just has the government’s approval and the other they can’t make money from, so they throw you in jail for cheating them.
I realize my hands are shaking and I curl them into fists, turn away from Alex, staring at the coffee pot. It’s moving too fucking slow.
“Zara…”
I refuse to turn around. I don’t want to see him or his pity.
I don’t want him to see my fingers shaking, or to know what he’s doing to me. What I’ve done to myself.
My throat feels tight, and I’m so fucking pissed and just so…exhausted. I just want to be alone. I don’t want to think about this, or him, or Eli, or any of it.
“Just go, Alex,” I whisper, brushing the warm tears from my face with the sleeve of the hoodie I’m wearing even though I’m sweating right now, and I just want to tear something apart. I want to throw the coffee pot against the wall. I want to cut this fucking sweatshirt off me. “Just go.” I take a shaky breath, listening to the end of the brew cycle, inhaling the scent of the coffee, but keeping my eyes closed tight. “Please go.”
He doesn’t say anything, and I know he won’t listen but it’s for his own good. I don’t know what’s going to happen with his mom, but I’m not her and he can’t fucking save me. I’m not her, and him pretending I am, pretending he can fix me, is just going to ruin us both.
He needs to leave.
“Alex, I can’t do this!” I shriek, burying my head in my han
ds. “I can’t do this and I’m so fucking sorry but I—”
He’s behind me, his fingers circling around my arm, but I yank back from him.
“No!” My voice comes out nearly broken and I hate it. “Don’t touch me! Just fucking go!”
He grabs me again and I try to fight against him, jerking in his grip and twisting my body in his arms to try and strike him. Hit him, kick him, whatever I can. But he’s got his arms wrapped around mine, pinning them to my sides, and it seems he expends no energy at all as he pulls me away from the kitchen counter, then slides his leg underneath one of mine and pulls up, causing me to lose my balance.
We hit the floor together, a solid thud throughout the whole apartment that I’m sure the people below us could hear but I don’t give a fuck about that at all.
His legs stretch out on either side of mine as he sits behind me, wrapping his arms around mine, my knees, too. He tugs me into his chest, and I start shaking, wanting to pull away. Wanting to run out of this apartment, down the steps, far away from here. Maybe even into that pool Rihanna Martinson drowned in. Alex’s pool. Eli’s pool.
I want to know what it feels like to drown.
I want to know what it feels like to feel nothing at all.
“Shh,” he whispers against my ear as I shake in his arms, burying my head against my own knees. His body is strong and warm and comforting behind me and I fucking hate it. I hate it because I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve him, and everything he’s doing for me. The way he’s putting his life on hold for mine. Even after everything I’ve done, he’s still here.
“Shh,” he says again, holding me tighter, trying to stop my shaking. “It’s okay, princess.”
It isn’t okay. It’ll never be okay. I’m not okay. I’m not fine.
I’m not fine.
I can’t stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks and I hate that they’re here, in his arms. I hate it, because this isn’t where I want to be.
This isn’t where I want to be. I don’t deserve it.
Alex has a good heart.
Sometimes I think I was born without one. Just like Eli.