by Nina Lincoln
To this day, I don’t know why he pulled away, except for his story about the necklace and bet, but since my part in that at least isn’t true, I can’t confirm.
I only know that one day it wasn’t me he gave his favorite candy to but some other girl. It wasn’t me he defended in the halls or spent time with after school.
It wasn’t me he looked at with his gorgeous hazel eyes and graced with his beautiful smile.
It wasn’t me.
We grew further and further apart until I couldn’t see past the distance, and over the summer before our freshman year of high school, he acted out the ultimate betrayal when he brought Sarah Park to our favorite spot and took her virginity under the same stars that he promised to me.
Devastated, I searched for answers I never found, and my misery came to a head during our senior year when I got drunk on cheap vodka at a party I didn’t want to be at and confessed my love, only for Griffin to throw it back at me.
Wretched with hurt, I vowed to show him what he was losing by dating Jason, and as payback, Griffin showed me how much he didn’t care by fucking my only friend.
And still, after all this, I’ve harbored these torturous feelings for nothing because the boy I knew isn’t the person he is now, and I’m desperate to see that boy. I’m desperate for my friend, even if he can never be my lover.
Foolish, because somewhere along the way, his feelings for me died, but mine live on, in breathtaking color.
None of it matters, though, because I’ll never reach that boy, and I’m tired of fucking trying.
It’s game day, so the house is quiet, Max having disappeared not long after Griff. Escaping my room, I make myself a small meal and settle it down in front of the television.
Truthfully, Max’s concern, if you can call it that about my eating habits, is not unwarranted because these days, food is an afterthought, something I have to remind myself of on the daily.
Of course, as I scroll the channels, the first one I land on is the game, and like a moron, I can’t turn away. Griff as a freshman isn’t the starting quarterback, but he’s allowed to play toward the end, and he’s a sight to behold. For Griff, the ball is an extension of him, and he plays the game with a fluid grace that’s mesmerizing to see.
Watching him play reminds me of all the times we passed the ball around because even then, he had a fierce love for the game. He walked around with a damn football under his hand everywhere we went, and back then, I thought it was cute. Now I just don’t know.
Okay, yes, I do. It’s hot.
Turning the television off with a sigh, I glance at the portrait on the wall beside it. It’s one of the two paintings my mom brought and Griffin suggested we hang, the other behind me on the opposite wall. I wanted no part of seeing them ever again, but in this I was shot down, and here they are.
They’re matching portraits of a woman in shadow, with her back to the artist. She’s open and vulnerable as she leans over and clutches her knees with her head hung low and a sigh on her parted lips.
At the time, I thought of her as me, but now I wonder if that wasn’t a lie that I constructed in my head. For the me who painted those renditions wasn’t a pretty lost girl with a slender neck—no, she was a train wreck barreling down the tracks to her eventual doom, and now they mock me with their innocence.
A thumping noise down the hall breaks me from my thoughts, and I cock my head to the side, trying to determine where it came from.
And when it comes again, I jump a foot and stand on shaky limbs, rounding the corner and peeking down the hall. I thought I was alone, but I guess not, and I hope it’s Max because clearly, it’s not Griffin, who’s currently tossing the ball on national television.
Hesitantly, I stand at the end of the hall and contemplate what to do. Check it out or lock myself in my bedroom?
Something tumbles to the floor, and I jump again with a gasp, before rolling my eyes because I’m being paranoid, for fuck’s sake.
With this thought, I venture closer, stopping before Max’s door as it swings open, and he appears at the threshold.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were at the game?” I ask, sagging with relief.
He shifts on his feet, and I strain to hear his words, mumbled in a low, indistinct tone. “Not this time.”
Glancing behind him, I note his private bathroom sourly before my eyes fall to the floor at the end of his bed, where there’s a pipe and baggies of white powdery stuff that sure as shit isn’t weed lying on the floor.
“What do you want?” Max grunts.
Stepping back with shock, I note his eye is twitching again, his pupils dilated, as sweat pours down his temple, and he taps his hand against his thigh.
He’s so high that he can’t even focus on my face. Fuck me.
“I—”
“I don’t have time for this shit. Get out of my way.” He brushes past me and after he’s gone, I glance at his retreating back hesitantly before stepping into his room. Picking up one of the baggies, I run my fingers over the powder inside.
I can hardly wrap my brain around the fact that my brother is doing blow—here in the house, as pretty as you please.
“Hey,” he growls, slapping the bag out of my hand. “Get the fuck out of my room.”
“Max,” I breathe, my heart hurting for him because we may not connect anymore, but he’s still my brother, and at one time, he was my friend, even if he’s pushed me unpleasantly away. I can’t stand to see this, and I’m afraid to know just how long he’s been doing it.
What happened to him? And how did I miss the signs? With shame, I realize I was too caught up in my own shit, and I let him down, just like everyone else.
“What?” He swings toward me, his face screwing up with an ugly sneer. “Oh, don’t even fucking start. At least I’m not popping pills from the psycho hospital.”
“Those are prescribed,” I say softly.
“Fuck off. This is none of your business.”
“But…Max, this isn’t good. How long—”
“I said mind your own fucking business,” he yells, getting in my face, and cautiously I step back.
He’s clearly not in his right mind, and he’s so hyped up, I can see the vein in his neck pulsing wildly. Shit, Max may not even remember this when he’s come back down.
Stepping back cautiously, I hold out my hands and attempt a soothing tone. “Okay.”
His brows drop over his eyes as he grabs my arm, his fingers tight. “Okay? Fuck you. Little miss perfect. How does it feel to know you’re not the favorite now?” he sneers.
“I don’t know what you mean, Max. You’re hurting me.”
Shaking me roughly, he pushes me away, and I stumble back, righting myself at the door where I glance down the hall, but hesitate because I’m afraid to leave and afraid to stay. This is all so fucked-up.
“You were always the fucking one, weren’t you, Hals? Well, I killed that, didn’t I? Whatever. Even now, you’re still the fucking one.”
“The one what?” I ask helplessly.
“Everything!” he bellows.
“I—”
“Halsey can’t be alone. She’ll have to live with you. Halsey’s sick. Keep an eye on her. Halsey needs a fucking ride. Drive her around. Halsey’s the one I love, too fucking bad for you.”
Although they make no sense, his words are filled with a desperate pain that causes an ache in my chest. How did I miss this? How did I not know my brother is so lost?
Because he shut me out and, for whatever reason, blames me.
Crying silently, I wipe the tears from my face. “I’m sorry.”
“Fuck off! I don’t want your fucking sorry! Grow up, leave! Don’t fucking come back!”
Nodding, I head down the hall, and I’m just entering the sanctuary of my room when he pulls me back and shoves me toward the living room.
“Max, please—”
“You don’t fucking tell anyone, Halsey. You understand?”
&nbs
p; “O-okay,” I stutter, backing toward the wall beside the couch.
He cocks his head to the side, examining me closely before he smiles, and the stretch of his lips is so dreadful, it sends a shiver down my spine. “You’re afraid of me.”
“N-no.”
“Hm, well, look at that, perfect fucking Halsey is afraid. What do you think I’m going to do? Hurt you?”
“Of course not. You’re my brother,” I whimper.
“I’m your nothing! I’m not your fucking brother! We’re not family! We’re nothing!”
Nodding helplessly, I quietly sob as he rages before me, pacing back and forth and muttering, his fists clenching and releasing at his sides. “Always fucking you.”
I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually, we’re both sitting on the floor, him by the television as he mutters shit under his breath.
My ass is numb, my heart hurts, and I’m fucking scared, but I don’t know how long this will go on if I don’t do something. He’s calmer, I think.
Shifting slowly, I rise to my feet, flinching when he jumps up and demands, “What are you doing?”
I’m hoping he’ll take mercy on me and I can escape this situation which is why I lie. “I need to pee.”
His eye twitches as he looks at me with his thousand-yard stare and I lower my gaze, flinching when he finally speaks. “Whatever. If you fucking tell anyone, Griff, Mom, Dad, I’ll fucking hurt you.”
He stalks away, and rushing forward, I follow him as far as my room before closing the door and locking it, never more relieved to have the damn lock.
What the fuck just happened?
Collapsing on the bed, I roll into a ball and try to process my brother’s complete change in personality, not to mention his newfound drug abuse. When did this start, and how long has it been going on?
What do I do?
Chapter Fifteen
What is hope but a motherfucking lie fed to children too stupid to understand?
Griffin comes home in an exhilarated mood because I presume his team won. I wouldn’t know because I haven’t left my room since Max left in a rage earlier.
The bass music is pumping as half the football team celebrates, and I lie in my bed, exhausted. I don’t know what to do, and I’m worried for my brother because I’ve never seen him act this way.
Where is the rage coming from? Is it the drugs, or has it been bubbling below the surface all this time?
What did he mean about me? Is he really jealous? If so, of what?
I’m hardly blessed. Hell, I’m the one who was pushed aside while the golden boys partied through high school and lived their best life.
How can I possibly be the one? I mean, I was in a mental hospital, for fuck’s sake—sorry I ruined your damn mojo.
My thoughts are turned when a message comes through on my phone, and I’m reminded that I agreed to go to a party with Hogan. Frankly, I’m exhausted, and I can’t imagine trying to put on a game face when my thoughts are spiraling, which is why my fingers are hovering over the keys in anticipation of bowing out when moaning starts up on the other side of my wall.
And with a sour smile, I make arrangements for him to pick me up in an hour before changing into something more appropriate and doing my makeup in the small mirror over my bed, my purple locks shining around my face.
When Hogan messages me that he’s arrived, I close my bedroom door behind me and make a beeline for the door, uninterested in the party around me. But as I’m opening the door to step outside, I glance back to find Griffin walking toward the kitchen with a lazy grin on his face.
That damn grin makes my stomach clench, but when his eyes meet mine, the expression fades as he takes in my jeans and sweater, the boots on my feet, and my hair around my shoulders.
His eyes darken as I smile coldly, my final fuck-you to the dick before I close the door and stalk to Hogan’s car.
“Hey, you look pretty,” Hogan says with a smile as I slide into the passenger seat.
Returning his smile, I fasten my seat belt as he pulls away from the curb. “Thanks.”
“So, did you do anything for Halloween?”
I chuckle sourly, fighting off images of Jason tied to a bed while I assaulted him.
“Not really.”
I’m assuming this isn’t an appropriate topic of conversation on a date. Still, the words tremble on my tongue because holding the secrets close is choking me, and I’ve got a fuck ton of them.
“Man, there was a crazy party on frat row. I got so fucked-up,” he chuckles.
Smiling, I listen to him chatter until we reach the party and stare with chagrin at the house full of people, but this is what I want—to fit in—so I’m going to suck it the fuck up.
Hogan leads me through the masses before grabbing us drinks and taking my hand as he heads for another room.
Inside, people have gathered around in a pile of couches, facing each other in a circle, and I glance around with unease. Do I want to participate in a drinking game? Should I?
“C’mon,” Hogan says, squeezing into a space on the sofa and pulling me onto his lap.
“Yo, Hogan,” a guy across the way calls, rolling his eyes over me lewdly before turning back to his date.
Fucker.
Hogan nods, pressing his hand against my thigh. Fighting the urge to push him off, I take a deep drink of my beer and sigh. This is going to be a long fucking night—I can feel it already.
“Okay, bitches and dicks, the name of the game is never have I ever,” a new guy pipes in. “You know the drill. Think up something you’ve never done but you think everyone else has because if they have, they drink.”
Hoots and hollers follow his statement, and I shift uncomfortably on Hogan’s lap, feeling caught out. I just want to be normal and play a fucking drinking game, but I know I shouldn’t mix it with my meds, not to mention my skin crawls at the misdeeds that can happen when I’m drunk.
But I decide as I look around at all the glassy eyes around me that I’m going to do this and be normal for once in my life. Fuck it.
“Okay, I’ll start,” the guy says with a wicked smirk. “Never have I ever sucked dick.”
The girls around me titter as they take sips of their drinks, and my face burns because I’ve never given a guy head, and I feel perfectly gauche right now.
Hogan leans into me, his erection obvious as he rubs it against my ass. “Mm, baby, maybe we can change that tonight?”
With a mental sigh, I take a drink, grimacing into my beer because fuck me, but Hogan doesn’t light so much as a spark, and I’m fighting off the inevitable chill at the thought of him anywhere near me.
“Never have I ever taken it in the ass,” some chick giggles, and I’m happy to say I can pass on that one.
“Never have I ever eaten pussy.”
“Never have I ever motorboated a set of titties.”
And on it goes, to which I wonder if these jerks can think of anything but sex. I mean, really?
Thankfully, there are so many people that it will be a while until it gets to me, and I’m slightly buzzed from downing two drinks in quick succession, which is why I miss Griffin in the crowd until his deep voice speaks up, and my head swings his way violently.
“Never have I ever fucked a bunch of dudes at the same time.”
He’s sitting next to two chicks, who are hanging off him, staring at me boldly, and I’m dumbfounded he’s here. Did he leave his own damn party?
But then his words penetrate, and with a scowl, I rise from Hogan’s lap and stumble toward the door, merging into the hall and searching for a bathroom.
I’m drunker than I thought because I can’t walk straight, and my lips are fucking numb, but when I can’t find the restroom, I step outside instead, breathing in the cool air.
Why the fuck won’t Griffin leave me alone? He as much as said he’s resentful of my mom’s request to watch out for me, so let it go already. I’m a fucking adult, and he’s a bastard. I’m pretty su
re we’re better off with a whole campus between us at this point.
Sitting down on the front steps, I rub my face and sigh, thoroughly exhausted with the shit that keeps flinging my way.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart? Couldn’t take the fire?” Griffin asks silkily behind me.
Huffing, I mutter, “Why are you here?”
“I was invited.”
“Really?” I can’t contain my disbelief. “What about the people you left at the house?”
His tone is oh-so-casual as he quirks a brow. “What about them? I’m sure they’re partying just fine without me.”
Searching his expression, I come away empty because I lost the ability to understand Griffin around the same time he turned into the icy-cold bastard he is now.
“What’s this about, Griffin? Did you follow me here?”
Cocking his head to the side, he says, “And what if I did?”
Ignoring the tiny thrill that tingles down my spine, I frown instead. “Why?”
This is all so fucked-up—I mean, the jerk fucked some chick earlier, and I’m, what, flattered he followed me here? Sick shit.
“Well, sweet,” he says, dropping to his haunches before me, “I’m tired of outrunning the inevitable.”
“Which is what?”
“You crashing and burning. Was it you who attacked Jason, Halsey?”
“What? No!” I exclaim, hiding my panic behind a cold scowl.
“Really?” It takes everything in me to meet his skeptical gaze, and I raise my chin for good measure. “Yes, really. And I’m hardly going to crash and burn.”
“Whatever. You think fucking Hogan is going to make it all better? What happened the last time, Halsey?”
Fighting off the urge to scrub my skin, I turn away from his gruff tone. “Ha! If you only knew.”
Am I to have my sins paraded before me forever? Apparently so.
“Hm,” he hums, and I shudder because I’d die if he had any idea of my shame, and with each interaction, I become more desperate to hide it.
“I’m allowed to go on a date,” I mutter frigidly, tired of him throwing shit in my face he couldn’t possibly understand.