by Nyla K
“You’re such a damn grown-up,” he sighs through a small smile, and pulls me into his side.
Unfortunately, there’s a newfound wariness in his tone when he says this, and it sucker punches me hard. I hate that he sees me as some tarnished little harlot because of what I did with his best friend. I just wish he could understand that what happened between me and Lazarus was so much more than just a teenage crush morphed into a torrid tryst.
I’m in love with him, and I never won’t be. What Lazarus and I had was real, I know it.
At least, it was for me.
My overworked mind swirls through all the noise, and I wonder if my father giving me my car back is some kind of test. Does he want to see if I’ll immediately run right over to Lazarus?
Honestly, I would expect my dad to track my location, through my car or my phone. I can’t say I blame him after everything I’ve done in the last couple months. Sure I’m eighteen, but if you want respect as an adult, you have to earn it, and I haven’t been doing that.
Sighing to myself, I acknowledge my stress, letting it settle into my brain. I visualize it, like a cloud of dust, sprinkling through the air, collecting on me slowly. And I sit with it, because I’ve learned in therapy that it’s okay to feel negative things, you just have to work out how you react to them.
I’ve had medication for my anxiety for years, and I became dependent on it. Working through the emotions without it now is a challenge. But then I’ve never been one to back down from those.
Thinking through all of this, the last thing I need right now is to sit alone in my bedroom, so I tell my dad I’m going to meet Merci at the beach, and he reluctantly lets me go. I call my girl and she’s crazy excited. It instantly improves my mood.
Twenty-minutes later, I pull up at Sunset Lake, Merci’s and my favorite area to hang out by the water, since it’s quiet and much less crowded than South Beach. I’m not in the mood to be around a bunch of people, anyway.
I just want to see my best friend.
The second I hop out of my car, she attacks me.
Merci hugs me harder than I’ve ever been hugged before, and I hug back, tears flowing down both our cheeks. We jump up and down and cry and sniffle like fools, but it feels good.
I needed this. I needed to see her, and I’m now a million times more grateful to my dad for not making me wait another week.
“Oh my God, baby T… Oh my God,” she squeaks. “I love you so much. I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“I love you too, Merc,” I croak with her hair in my mouth. “I’m so fucking sorry I made you go through that.”
“Bitch! Do you know how awful that was??” She pulls back then smacks me in the boob. “I thought I’d lost you.”
I break down into more hysterics, and we end up cradling each other for far too long.
When we eventually calm down, we have a seat on a bench that overlooks the water, the sun just beginning to set. It’s chillier now that it’s almost winter, still barely down to the sixties, but it’s enough for us to throw hoodies on and cuddle up to shield from the ocean breeze.
“I’m so proud of you, girl,” Merci nudges my knee. “Clean and sober. That’s more than I can say for myself.”
“It’s only necessary if you’re an addict which I definitely am.”
“Still, you’ve inspired me. I’m done with drugs. Well, except for the occasional joint.” She giggles, and I laugh with her, shaking my head at this crazy broad. “But just weed! None of your laced shit.”
“I know, man. I can’t believe I did all that…” Regret and shame weave into my tone.
“You’re getting better, that’s all that matters.”
We’re quiet for a moment, watching the water move as the sun disappears into it.
“Have you talked to Lazarus?” She asks, and just hearing his name sends the same wave of excitement and angst zipping through my system it always has.
Shocking that it still feels this way, even after everything that’s happened.
“No,” the word carries my vulnerability. “He hasn’t called or texted. I know he’s fucked up over everything, but he calls my dad nonstop. Almost every time I’m near my father his phone is ringing with Laz’s name on the screen. And he never answers it.”
“They haven’t talked at all?”
“Not that I know of. Dad always ignores the calls. He’s been working from home since the hospital, and he even goes through his assistant with all the work stuff. It’s fucking awful, Merc. I’ve never felt so guilty in my entire life. The overdose and the stripping was nothing compared to this. I mean, I ruined a twenty-five-year friendship… How do I live with that?”
She draws in a long breath. “I don’t know, babe. But it’s not all your fault. Lazarus knew what he was getting himself into. He knew the risks of hooking up with you and he did it anyway. The least he could do is check in to make sure you’re alright.”
My heart allows me to speak the words I’ve been keeping locked away since I swallowed a bottle of pills. “I think he’s over me. He regrets it. It’s obvious.” A foolish tear trails my cheek and I swipe it away. “How am I supposed to move on knowing I had him and lost him…?”
She turns to face me. “Before you work yourself up, which is totally not good for you right now, I think you should try calling him. Just see where he stands at least. He’s probably terrified to call you because he’s trying to remain loyal to your dad. But you deserve to know what’s up.”
I stare out at the water and ponder this for a moment, but Merci isn’t letting me off the hook that easily.
“Do it now,” she insists.
All the rampaging nerves in the world are attacking me, worse than during any of the things I’ve been through in therapy or N.A. The thought of speaking with Lazarus again, hearing his voice after not hearing it for weeks, has stress butterflies dancing up my esophagus like nausea.
But I agree with Merci. I need to know what’s going on with him, and I need him to know that I still love him. That I’ll try in any way possible to make this right with my dad.
“I’ll text him,” I concede, to which she rolls her eyes.
I tug my phone out of my clutch and pull up a text to Laz’s phone while gnawing at my lip. I type out a basic message, just testing the waters to see if he’ll even respond.
Me: Hey. I just wanted to see how you’re doing… I miss you.
The worry seizing my muscles turns into confusion when the messages bounces back as undeliverable.
Merci peeks over my shoulder, and we share a look.
“Did he block me?” I gasp, forehead lined in unease. I’m puzzled, straddling the fence of freaking the hell out.
I try resending the message and it still won’t go through. So I call him. And my stomach drops in despair when a recording comes on, saying the number I’ve dialed is not in service or some bullshit.
“Holy fuck, he actually blocked me.” I gape at my phone screen like it’s personally responsible for this. “What the fuck, man?”
“Is there any way he’d change his number?” Merci asks, but I shake my head.
“No, he’s been calling my dad from his number. Same one as always.” I cover my face with my hands. “Why would he block me?”
“I’m sure it’s for your dad’s benefit,” she speaks in a calming tone, likely because I’m getting visibly worked up now. “He’s just going to extra lengths to sever contact because he knows if you two talk or see each other, especially right now, your dad will never forgive him.”
“Yea, or he’s fucking over me,” I cringe. “If he was ever under me to begin with…”
“I really want to make a dirty joke, but you’re upset so I’ll hold it in.”
Squinting, I turn my head before snorting out a laugh. “You look like it’s killing you not to say it, so just go ahead.”
“He was definitely under you, sis,” she beams, trying to cheer me up. And it’s working because now I’m smiling. “I heard it
through my bedroom wall.”
I let a giggle slip as she cackles deviously, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me into her side.
This shit with Lazarus is very unnerving, but I can’t let it derail the hard work I’m putting into bettering myself and staying clean. I have the support of my family and my best friend on Earth, and that’s all I need.
For now.
The moment I step through the door to my home an hour later, I hear shouting.
It’s my dad, and instinctively every muscle in my body tenses.
“I said stop, so for the love of God, please… Stop,” Dad growls, and I don’t hear anyone else, nor did I see any cars in the driveway, so I’m guessing he’s on the phone.
I tiptoe through the foyer as quietly as possible so he doesn’t think I’m eavesdropping, which is exactly what I’m doing, by the way.
“You’re making me insane, calling twenty-four-seven,” he continues to grumble. “Give it a rest.”
Okay, so he must be talking to Lazarus.
My stomach twists in that usual anticipation that would hit any time my dad was speaking with him. But then disappointment and rejection take over, since clearly his phone is working.
He hates me. Motherfucker actually blocked me, that’s how little he cares. And yet he calls my dad day and night. I don’t know why I’m surprised.
“Lazarus, enough!” My father shouts, and I flinch. “I don’t fucking care! If I wanted to talk to you, I’d talk to you.” He pauses. “No. No no no, just stop. This is it. If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll block you. Is that what you want?”
I can almost hear Lazarus in my mind, his deep voice, giving off the only vulnerability he possesses, reserved exclusively for my father.
No, I don’t want that.
“Exactly, so fuck the fuck off. We’re not friends anymore. We’re nothing.”
The word nothing shoots me in the heart, like a piece of shrapnel from the bomb of hate my father just dropped on his best friend. All the air leaves my lungs in a painful gasp.
Because of me.
I cross my arms over my chest to apply pressure to the gaping wound behind my ribs.
“Fuck!” My dad roars, and I hear something smash against something else in the living room.
My adrenaline has spiked as I dart toward the stairs to escape before I become the next recipient of my father’s rage, but I’m too late. He’s already storming around the corner, looking equal parts enraged and anguished.
He spots me and stops in his tracks, eyes widening, mouth dropping open. But nothing comes out, and we just stand there in silence for a minute, staring at one another.
“Dad…” I whisper as I search myself for any words I can utter to help this situation. “I’m… I just…” My head shakes over and over because I have no fucking clue what to say.
“Forget about it, Traci,” he mutters, stalking past me to the bar to pour himself a drink. The decanter clinks on his glass with his shaky hands. “Just let it go.”
“I can’t just let it go, Dad,” I plead with my eyes for him to listen and hear me. “It’s been three weeks, and we haven’t talked about it. We have to talk about it…”
“No, we don’t -”
“For my recovery, yes we do,” I cut him off, matter-of-factly. “I need you to know why it happened.”
“No, that’s the last thing I need to know.” He turns away, rubbing his eyes before taking a large gulp from his glass.
“That’s bullshit!” I shriek at him as my emotions bubble over. “The reason why is everything! Dad, I love -”
“I fucking know!” He shouts and whips the drink against the wall, glass shattering everywhere. “I know that, Tracien, but that doesn’t fucking help me! So just stop with this shit now. I can’t fucking take it.”
He inhales a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut tight and pinching the bridge of his nose. I gape at his face, stunned speechless. He looks purely destroyed, just like he did the night he found out.
Nothing has gotten better. He hasn’t forgiven or forgotten.
I ruined his fucking life.
Watching his lined forehead, brows stitched together, he covers his face with his hands and rushes out a hard, aggrieved sigh.
“Just go upstairs please, before you cut yourself,” he mumbles from behind his hands. “I’m fine, I’ll take care of it.”
I want to scream at him that I don’t give a fuck about the fucking glass! We need to talk about this more… We need to sort this all out.
I need to know why me loving Lazarus isn’t a good enough reason for him to accept what happened, or at the very least talk to me about it. I understand that I hurt him. I broke his trust beyond repair. Drove a bulldozer straight through it and demolished his relationship with Lazarus in the process.
But I’m his daughter, and he still loves me. I know he still loves us both.
So why does it seem like me loving Lazarus is worse than us just having sex?
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Lazarus
I don’t want to do this.
My footsteps creak the floorboards and I cringe. I’m trying to be quiet. Stealth.
I need to get in and out undetected, but that’ll be impossible in this busted old house.
I really don’t want to even do this…
I’m not a pussy or anything. I’m not scared, so you can fuck right off with that shit. I just don’t have anything in this place I give much of a shit about. I have no belongings that mean anything to me.
What? A few pairs of socks and Hempstead Heat hoodie?
Who gives a fuck? I’d rather leave it all behind and never look back.
Unfortunately for me and my unfortunate existence, I can’t exactly do that. But at the very least I can have a nice little vacation until Damien’s parents notice I’m living in their house.
He assures me we’ll have a couple weeks, minimum.
My stomach twists into a knot and I absentmindedly rub my sore shoulder while sneaking around the corner. I have a pretty diesel bruise from this asshole slamming me into the dresser last night. Damien saw it and made a scene, the way Damien does, by comforting me, making me laugh and demanding that I pack a bag and come stay at his house.
I guess he’s alright.
Honestly, at this point I barely know how to process Damien Wright. At first I thought he was pitying me, or trying to fuck with me, like all the rest of the rich, popular jock dickwads like him. But he’s been driving me around everywhere for months, having lunch with me, and we even went to the movies a few times.
I think he’s… my friend. I think he wants to be my friend. I’m still not sure why, but I have to admit I like having someone who pays attention to me. Someone who smiles a lot and makes jokes and helps me.
Like when he found me last week, after I slept in the woods. He let me cry in front of him and he didn’t call me a pussy, or a faggot, or a loser. He didn’t tell anyone.
He hugged me and brought me to his house. He let me take a shower, and gave me clothes to wear, then ordered pizza for us. And he didn’t even make a joke about me eating almost an entire Hawaiian with bacon. Turns out he likes that kind, too.
Damien’s a really cool guy. Actually, he seems just as lonely as me, which doesn’t make me feel sad for him. It makes me think that maybe we can be each other’s family.
I mean, he has a family already, just a mother and a father, but they don’t seem to pay him much mind. I know the feeling…
After last week, I don’t think I need to worry about him potentially playing me out anymore. If he were trying to fuck with me, he would’ve done it by now. No, I think he’s just a genuinely cool, smart, funny person who likes me.
And why shouldn’t he? I’m alright. I have my moments…
All these foster assholes were wrong. Birdie was wrong.
It’s not me, it’s them. I’m done being their chew toy. I’m done taking the blame for their fuck-ups.
If I can mak
e a friend like Damien Wright, then I’m sure I can make more friends. I’m sure I can have a future. I’m done letting these pricks bring me down.
I’m going to motherfuckin rise.
Taking a deep breath, I rush up the stairs, knowing they’re by far the creakiest part of this whole damn house, and the drunk prick is definitely going to hear me now. So I make it a point not to linger, storming into “my bedroom”, grabbing a bunch of clothes and stuffing them all into my backpack as fast as possible.
The house seems quiet, which isn’t unusual since Mom Four is never home, and the asshole is usually passed out. But I don’t let the silence fool me as I keep moving, quickly, snatching one last notebook and stashing it away before turning to get the fuck out of here.
I leave the room, just barely making it to the stairs before someone yanks me back by my t-shirt.
“Fuck you think you’re goin’, boy?” The scumbag slurs, whipping me into the wall.
I tense up, peering at him in the dimly lit hallway. “Fuck off.”
“Come on, kid. No need to be salty,” he grumbles, crowding me. “I was jus tryin’ to teach ya a lesson last night.”
“Yea, and what lesson is that? How to be a prick?” I seethe, inching away slowly.
But he grabs my shoulder, right where the goddamn bruise is, and squeezes, causing me to groan and crumble to my knees. It hurts like a bitch.
“Unfuckingrateful. I think it’s ‘bout time you make it up to me.” He grabs me by my hair and I hiss.
My vision is red, lungs tight, and heart rate jacked up like crazy. The fear is mixing with the anger into a cocktail of adrenaline, shooting through my veins. I’m going to fuck this guy up. I don’t even care how much harder he can beat me.
I’m so fucking done with this shit.
Suddenly there’s a noise from downstairs. It sounds like the front door opening.
Then a voice shouts, “Lazarus?”