by Lena Maye
He throws an arm over the back of Cassie’s empty chair. “Yes, I’ve spoken to him.”
“When?”
“Today.” The bastard smiles.
Sloane leans forward. “That’s a very leading word. Care to finish the thought?”
I throw a hand up to quiet her. “Finish the thought, Mackie. You know you want to.”
He takes a sip. “I was going to say, and I spoke to Abby too.”
“Abby?”
“He’s staying with her.” Mackie’s lips curl up. “She’s got a little studio apartment in Boston.”
I push back my chair. Silverware clinks against plates.
“I’m sure Kepler is enjoying her company,” Mackie continues.
“What are you trying to say?”
He fiddles with his bread and nods towards Cassie. She stands six tables away, talking with Mr. McGreggot, who lost his grandson last year in a car accident. Cassie nods and smiles a big fake smile.
“You’re not good for him,” he says. “And you aren’t good for Cassie either.”
“I could say the same about you.”
“You tear into her, and you don’t even see it.”
“You need to watch your mouth,” Sloane interjects. Her protest is too late. The ratchet across my chest binds down so fast I’m not prepared for it. I suck in a strangled breath and push away from the table.
Because he’s right. I’m a bomb waiting to detonate. And the only one who’s noticed I’m ticking down isn’t here. I glance around for Kepler—like he will suddenly appear. Like he always fucking does.
But he’s just not there. Where is he?
“She’s going to move in with me.” Mackie’s smile grows.
“Does she know that?”
“Not yet.”
Across the room, Cassie turns the fake-smile to Mrs. Loury. When she catches me looking, her bottom lip widens into something real.
She’s been my best friend since before we even thought about boys. Since we used to have scooter races and draw with sidewalk chalk. I won’t lose Cassie. Especially not to this guy.
My chest aches. My fingers rattle against my thighs. “It was nice seeing Devon again the other night.”
Mackie’s smile intensifies.
I let him have a moment of satisfaction. “Not the night Kepler punched him. The other night at our apartment. Your brother was chatting up Cassie when I got home. I don’t know when he left. One in the morning?”
Mackie’s mouth drops open. “A lie.”
I shake my head. “No, Mackie. It’s not.”
He pushes back from the table, his gaze fixed on Cassie. “She told me…”
“No, wait—” I start, but he’s already crossing the room.
Fuck.
Regret, regret, regret. I shouldn’t have said it.
Sloane grabs my arm, but I shake her off.
“Leave me the fuck alone.” I stand and head in the opposite direction as Mackie—towards the back hallway across from the bar. The clink of glasses and silverware and my fucking betrayal fade as the double doors close. My heart pounds.
Fuck. I pace the little hallway, that itchy feeling running up and down my spine.
I need to stop. I know where this goes—me tumbling down dark hallways after breakable guys. Me saying stupid stuff to the people I love. And there’s no Kepler here to hold me back.
I’m so lost without him. I can’t fall apart when he’s gone. I can’t rely on him. I need to be whole on my own. I wrap my arms around myself and breathe, breathe, breathe. Minutes crawl, each one bringing more tightness across my chest.
The door bangs open, and Cassie pounds into the hallway. She’s wild hair and wild eyes. I flinch away.
“I’ve seen you do some shitty things before.” She doesn’t cross the distance. She stays at her end of the hallway, as far away as possible. “That’s the worst thing you’ve ever done to me.”
She’s right. “I’m so sorry, Cassie. I’m—”
“You saw I had something, and you tried to take it from me.”
“He’s trying to take you away from me. And from yourself.” It sounds so pathetic when I say it out loud.
“Don’t put this on Mackie. You hurt me all the time. I’ve got to wear armor to be around you.” She pauses. “You’re not good for me.”
Mackie’s words coming out of her mouth. Is that what he told her? “I’m sorry. I—”
“You don’t get it.” Cassie’s voice cracks. “Sorry isn’t good enough. Just because you hate yourself doesn’t mean you can take it out on me.”
The air goes out of the room. “That’s what you think of me?”
“Do you care what I think?”
“Of course I care.” I reach out to her but catch nothing. She’s too far away. “I always care what you think. And I’m sorry, Cassie. I’m so, so sorry.”
“I don’t believe you.” The door slams between us—the last word in an argument. And I’m left alone with the last person I want to be with.
The grid of pictures hangs across from me. Mackie holding a golf bag. And Kepler smiling. I slam my fist into the picture, and the glass spiderwebs.
I barrel through the bar, and a few guys sitting on the stools turn to watch me. I ignore them and snag a bottle off a cart. A huge window shows off the first tee. And where the stars should be, if they weren’t covered by clouds.
I head towards the missing stars. I pop the cork and take a swig of whatever. It burns and claws down my throat. I messed up. My stupid mouth opened before my brain caught up. I take another drink.
I stalk farther onto the golf course, away from all my mistakes. Wet grass sticks to my sandals. The cold tries to wake me up, but I don’t think anything could wake me up.
“You okay?”
I turn. Curly black hair. Long-sleeved pink golf shirt. A smirk on his face that says he’s not as sweet as he seems.
Fuck my life.
Nineteen
The whiskey bottle pendulums at my side. I’m detached from it even though I’m swinging it. Ten yards past the first tee, the guy catches up with me. My feet are wet from the cold grass. My legs freezing. It’s too damn cold to be out here, but I’ve never let that stop me before.
“Are you okay?” He raises his hands like I’m a crazed animal. Which I might be.
“Sure, why not.” I force my shoulders to relax, which doesn’t come naturally.
The rolling golf course hints at a thousand dark corners perfect to slip away to. I should walk into one of those dark corners—leave him and the bottle and go home and tuck myself away. But every part of me is electrified. I don’t know how to escape this feeling.
“Can I have a drink?” He speaks too quickly to be from small-town Colorado. His lips release into a smile. I forgot what it feels like to make a guy smile.
I hand him the whiskey. He grins through his swig.
The bottle drops next to his thigh. He rakes his hand through his hair and sends the curls into a panic. It’s cute, really. That, along with the pink shirt. Better than an unimaginative gray t-shirt with black glasses sticking out of the pocket.
Stop thinking about him. He’s gone. Left.
Dressed like that, Pink-Shirt Guy must not be here for the fundraiser. “How was your match today?”
“I lost.” He spreads out his arms as if to hug the course. The guy must really like golf.
“Ouch. I bet that hurt.” My lips keep moving, but I’m a thousand miles away. The stars are covered by clouds. I frantically search, but I can’t find one star to hold on to. It’s as if the universe has evaporated and left me alone.
“Nah, it was my own mess.” His fingers grip the neck of the bottle. His ears are pink—from the cold? Something else?
And what was his own mess? I can’t remember what we were talking about. “Tell me about it.” A vague enough comment to cover anything.
“Seriously?”
“Absolutely.” Eye contact. Fake interest. It’s as easy as e
ver, and I’m not even paying attention to his words. It was never this easy with Kepler. Maybe that should have been a sign. I snag the bottle and take a drink.
“I got a double bogey on the fifth hole.” His teeth graze his bottom lip. He steps to the side and stumbles. Is he drunk? “And a triple on the ninth. Not a good day. Although it’s way too freaking cold to be playing anyway.”
Ah, golf. We were talking about golf. But I have no idea what a double bogey means.
His eyes flash down at me.
“I had a fabulous day.” I drink and cough. My head swims. I hate whiskey, if that's even what I'm drinking. I hate all of this.
It repeats. My life always fucking repeats. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want this. So why the fuck am I still standing here?
“Drinking on the golf course suggests otherwise.” He sidles up next to me and wraps an arm over my shoulder in a sloppy half hug. He smells like sweat and thick cologne. I sidestep away.
But he leans towards me, carefully at first, then with more certainty as I let him press his lips against mine. His tongue razors into my mouth.
My phone vibrates my skin where I’d tucked it under the strap of my dress. The vibration is an alarm against my skin, waking me up. I’m suddenly a tee over—watching his hands crawl over me. I watch myself clutching the whiskey. Doing everything I can to forget about someone else.
I push him away. My breath comes in sharp, white puffs.
“Fuck.” I take another swig. My fingers rattle against the bottle. My heart’s an out-of-control steam train.
This is a joke. I’m a joke. Kepler lingers in the worst possible way. He’s a maze, and I’m trapped inside of him. Smoke and mirrors I can’t find my way out of.
Just like the rest of my life.
Pink-Shirt Guy leans into me, stinking like all the guys before Kepler. I shove him away. He stumbles and catches himself. He’s saying something, but it’s like Kepler is too big a word to hear anything else.
Why did Kepler do this? How could he pretend like he cares and then disappear?
What kind of a person would do that?
I would. And I’ve done it again and again.
I look at the guy and try to really see him. Bloodshot eyes, greasy hair, and sharp shoulders under a frayed shirt.
“What’s wrong?” Pink-Shirt Guy already has his freaking pants unzipped. They hang on his hips. “Are we doing this thing?”
I shake my head. A laugh bubbles out. I’m so far away from myself I’m not sure I’ll ever make it home.
“Why do you like me?” I say between the laughter.
He shakes his head. “You’re one crazy girl.”
“Nope. Just broken.” My breath comes fast despite the pounding pressure on my chest. My hands move—to my hips, my hair, my face. I don’t know what to do with them, but I’ve got this energy in me that keeps moving. Somehow I keep clutching the bottle.
He advances. One hand is sunk into his pants, and the other reaches out. He pushes my shoulder to one side in a drunken attempt to get me to turn around. When it doesn’t work, he pulls up my dress.
I can’t hold my laughter in. I can’t keep myself from twitching and pulsing. My muscles aren’t connected to my brain.
I hate all of these guys. My mom’s boyfriends. My boyfriends. But they are a rhythm I can’t escape.
He paws at me, and I push him back. He’s so drunk that he can hardly stand.
I swing my arms. I have to keep moving. I’m trapped under clouds with no way out. I bounce on my toes.
The guy’s hand on my shoulder is like a bolt of electricity down my arm and into the fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle. I swing. The bottle connects at his temple, sending a ricochet up my arm.
He stumbles and emits a surprised grunt. His hands cover his face.
I drop the bottle. I can’t stop moving. My fingers curl into a tight ball. I punch.
“Stop,” he says. Or something like that—something I’m supposed to listen to. All I feel are these damn jitters like I’m a flailing marionette slashing at the world. I jab out. I kick. There’s no future and no past and only a slip of a thought about Kepler.
Hands yank me back. An arm locks across my chest.
“Jean.” Sloane takes up all of my vision. “Stop. You’re safe now.”
“No.” I’m not safe. I’m still me.
I can’t get this vibration out of my fingers. I shake them. Blood. Why is there blood on my hands?
Sloane speaks to a lump on the ground.
Oh God. Blood drips from his nose and a cut on his head. His pants are halfway down. His khakis are wet—from the grass? He moans as he tries to sit up.
He reaches a hand up to Sloane, but she knocks it aside. “You’re an asshole.”
Why is she yelling at him? She should help him. She should yell at me.
“I’ll have you locked up for years.” She spits venom.
His pants are down. My stretchy dress is hiked up—the hem is torn. I think he grabbed it when he fell.
But to Sloane, it looks like he tried to hurt me.
I grab her arm. “I did this.”
My lungs squeeze. I drop to my knees and gulp for air. My body fights against me, my vision fragments into colors that overlap the night and Sloane’s face. Like before in Kepler’s car. The world tilts.
I need to breathe.
“What is this?” Sloane grabs my shoulder. “What the hell is going on with you?”
Her arms loop me. She tugs me towards haloed lightbulbs and faces. The bar. Her grip is strong and sure, but I can’t sink into it. Every part of her is hard lines.
She drops me in a chair and presses a glass to my lips. Water fills my mouth, but I spit it out. There’s no air. My lungs have emptied themselves, and I can’t get them to fill up. I need them to fill up.
“You’re having a panic attack.” Sloane is inches away. She stares at me with our father’s eyes. “Has this happened before?”
I try to nod, but my head lolls. It happened with Kepler. This ratcheting across my chest started with Kepler. I claw at Sloane’s dress. She has to help me. I need to breathe right fucking now.
Sloane grabs ice from the glass of water and shoves it down my dress. I gasp out the last bit of air I have left. She takes more ice and forces it into my clenched hands. More on my neck. Each prick of pain makes me gasp. But it’s countered by an intake of air. Out and in, and out and in.
“Stop.” I finally get a word out.
Sloane shoves another handful of cold down my dress. “More ice.”
The room swims. I roll my head to find Sebastian holding cups of ice. Cassie’s hands cover her mouth. Her fundraiser night—ripped to shreds. Mackie’s arms wrap around her.
She’ll never forgive me. She shouldn’t forgive me.
I push Sloane’s hands away. “Stop doing that.”
“You’re welcome.” Her fingers are red from the cold. Her hand sinks to her missing gun. “It’s a good thing I taught you how to throw a punch.”
Her dark eyes are mirrors. “Your eyes are so much like Dad’s.”
She grinds her teeth. I haven’t seen her do that in years. “You need to get out of here.” She turns to Sebastian. “Can you take her home?”
I shake my head. I have to explain this. “Sloane—” Razors cut my throat.
She shakes her head. Her swept-up hair is off kilter. Strands fall around her ears. “I’ll be by later. I need to deal with that scumbag. He can’t—”
“No.” I grip the back of the chair and get to unsteady feet. “You can’t arrest him.”
“I will not let him walk.” Feet shoulder width apart and hands on her hips, Sloane is a statue of certainty.
Everyone’s eyes are on me. Cassie, Sebastian, Mackie. But no one speaks. Mr. Yim is behind the bar, filling up a plastic bag with ice. They don’t understand.
“Sloane,” I say her name with all the fire I have left. “No.” I stumble with how to tell her that it�
��s me who needs to be arrested. I could have walked away from him. I’m the terrible person.
She slips her phone out from under the strap of her bra. It’s the same place I keep mine. But Sloane never would have done what I did.
“This is the wrong choice,” she says.
“My choice, not yours.”
She glances around at the circle of onlookers. “That’s not exactly true. I’m a cop. I can’t let this go.”
“Stop being a cop.” I fumble, my mind still a vapor. “And just be my sister.”
Sloane sighs and tucks up the loose strands of hair. “You better walk to the car, because I don’t want to have to drag you again.” She blows out an annoyed breath, but it’s Sloane who holds me up when I start towards the door. It’s Sloane who takes the ice from Mr. Yim. And has Sebastian bring his truck around. Steady, strong Sloane.
She helps me into Sebastian’s truck, and I lean my head on her shoulder as we take slow turns. My phone vibrates, and Sloane hands it to me. I didn’t even realize she was holding it.
Three missed calls. One voice mail. I hold the phone up to my ear. The voice mail is from an hour ago—when I was out on the golf course.
“Lo.” I jump at Kepler’s voice. “I’m in Boston. I went to this little pub that has the hard cider you like on tap and”—he takes a breath—“I should have called earlier.” There’s a long pause filled with all this weight. Like he’s saying a thousand things with silence, and then he’s gone again.
Twenty
The falling dream replays. Except for when I hit the floor, the cement shimmers into liquid and I sink. Wet cement fills my mouth and runs like blood down my throat before it hardens. I wake and dream, wake and dream.
A kiss on my forehead ends the torment. I blink up at smoky eyes. My whole body calms like it’s released a giant breath. Traitor body—doesn’t it know my brain is angry with him?
Kepler reclines next to me. In my bed. His legs cross at the ankles, and his hands catch behind his head. He takes up so much space in the room. I relax into the feeling of him next to me, simmering with his presence.