We stare at one another, both fuming.
“What’s this really about?” Donovan finally asks. “Why are you acting so crazy? Some girl doesn’t want you, so you drink yourself into a stupor?”
My heavy shoulders sag. “What else am I going to do? I’m alone.”
“Alone? What about your band? I thought music is all you need,” he says mocking me.
“Maybe it’s not enough anymore,” I mutter.
Donovan’s voice is missing its usual edge when he replies. “You’re not alone, E. You know you always have me.”
I bark a bitter laugh. “Ha! That’s a joke. You don’t even know me anymore.”
“Eric—”
“No, I’m done being your charity case. Friendship is a two-way street, and we haven’t been in the same zip code in a long time.”
Donovan’s jaw tightens, but I’m on a role. “Think about it. When was the last time you bothered to support me?”
“All I do is support you!” he roared. “I funded half the junk in this apartment.”
I shake my head. “It’s always about money with you, isn’t it?”
Donovan threw his hands up. “Whatever, man. I’ll come back in the morning when you’re making sense.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I’m not looking for a handout. I’m looking for my old friend, Donovan, the one who actually had time for me and liked coming to my gigs.” Emotion tightens my voice. “Why the hell can’t you ever just be there for me? Whenever I need you, you always have some snide comment to go along with a bought excuse. A pricey bottle of booze isn’t a replacement for being there. I don’t need that, Donovan. I need support and respect.”
Donovan goes quiet, his eyes wide with alarm. The expression doesn’t fit his normally self-confident face. “I didn't realize—” he starts to say quietly, but I’m not done.
There’s so much I’ve never said, that I’ve kept bottled up inside of me for so long. “You weren’t even there for me when my mom left because my dad was a drunken lowlife who used her as a punching bag. You didn't care.”
“That’s not true! I asked you to move in with us.”
“And every time I tried my dad nearly killed me. How many times did I show up at your house with a black eye or a busted lip and you just asked what kind of trouble ‘Easy E’ had gotten into?”
“Wait,” he whispers, “You never . . . Eric, you never told me that!”
“Because I’m just a joke to you. Easy E, the comic relief.”
“Eric, you never told me about your dad. If you did, I would’ve been there for you. Just like you were there for me when I lost Vivian.”
“You didn’t even come to his funeral,” I hiss.
“Whose funeral?”
“My dad’s!”
Donovan’s eyes widen. “E . . . you told me you weren’t going.”
My eyes meet his, cold and distant. “He was my father. Of course I went.”
“Jesus, Eric. I didn’t know.” He ran a hand through his perfect hair. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this? You always make everything a joke. How was I supposed to know you were hurting?”
“If you were really my friend you would have known! You would have seen how messed up I am, how alcohol is the only thing that makes me feel better until . . . until her. She’s all I want, D!”
“Then we’ll find her, Eric,” he starts to say. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean for it to come to this. I didn't know you were so unhappy.”
“You’re sorry?” I scoff, both because I’m startled to hear the powerful, successful Donovan Dunn apologize, but also because it just doesn’t help. “Sorry doesn’t cut it. You’ve let me down too much—”
I start to storm away from him, but my foot clumsily catches on the foot of the coffee table. Donovan lurches forward to catch me, but the glass covered ground beats him to it. My hands sprawl out to brace my fall, meeting jagged glass.
Crimson heat surges from my torn palm as I stare down at ripped and mangled flesh. With a roar of pure pain, I roll onto my back as Donovan leans over me.
“It’s okay,” he promises, but his face is full of panic. “I’m gonna get you to the hospital and it’s gonna be okay.”
He says the reassuring words over and over, but I can’t stop shaking my head. “No,” I moan, “it’s my playing hand.” My vision is spotting with pain. “Donovan, it’s over.”
He speaks, but emptiness is all that greets me as I close my eyes.
Chapter 16
Morgan
Tears that I have fought for weeks spill down my cheeks. I slump against the side of the bathtub, my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking. Though I fight not to make any noise, squeaks of my strangled sobs escape until there’s a faint knock on the door and Stacy’s gentle voice floats through.
“Morgan, want to let us in?” she presses in that way she has of making a demand sound so nice that you have no choice but to oblige.
I curl up tighter, the room wobbling back and forth in my drunken delirium, my stomach flipping. Even though I told Stacy I’d had some pizza earlier, that had been a lie. I’d barely touched any food since Hanson’s remarks on my body. And after three shots of vodka on an empty stomach, I burst into tears at La Folie and started wailing about how no one would ever want me again.
Shame burns my cheeks as bits and pieces of the night start to come back to me. I’m such an embarrassment. All I’d ever wanted is circling the drain and my behavior tonight has sealed the deal. I’ll never be a successful model. I’ll never have my name in lights while people gaze at me on a runway. My career is small and pitiful, just like my life.
Here I am, drunk and depressed in my pathetic New York bathroom, in my pathetic New York apartment. Hanson and Charlotte are right. I’m not cut out for this. I’m just a small-town girl from Kansas who never should’ve been allowed to dream so big.
Maybe it’s time to stop struggling and go home.
“Morgan,” Stacy repeats before she jiggles the doorknob. “Let me in.”
The door swings open after a second, leaving both her and Chloe gazing at me from the doorway. Stacy glides the hairpin she used to pick the lock back into her hair, then walks over to me, kneeling at my side. After a moment, I sink into her arms, letting her hold me the same way my mother used to. God, I miss her.
My tears fall faster and faster, soaking through Stacy’s pretty lace dress until a stain of mascara remains. I hate that I’ve fallen so far. All I ever wanted to do was make my mother proud. Sure, I was only twelve when I promised her I’d be a model. But those were the only memories I had left to cling to. The ones where I lay curled up next to her in her hospital bed, flipping through fashion magazines and daydreaming about the lives of the beautiful people on the pages.
My mom always told me I’d be one of them someday. I wanted to achieve that goal for her, for all the time and dreams the cancer had robbed from her.