"Sure. I soak in a song. I feel it everywhere. And sometimes it makes me feel understood. But that's it. I might think about the lyrics, but I can't dissect them."
"That's a lot."
Maybe. "There's this Lorde song. About how her boyfriend dumped her because she was too much and he couldn't handle it. I played that a lot after Sean and I ended."
"How did you feel?"
"Better. But worse too. Like I went inside it." My eyes meet his. "I guess… I felt understood. And that helped."
"It always does."
Yeah. And he had all this art. This new obsession. It should have been perfect. "How did you get from that—from this new skill that opened your eyes—to drinking the way you do?"
"I felt better when I drew. And sometimes I held on to it. But sometimes I didn't. Or I'd fixate on it. Like you did, with the Lorde song. Obsess over something that hurt me. Something that fucked me up. Some pain I felt. And… I don't know. I wish I had a good story. That there was this one moment when I snapped. But there wasn't. For a while, I just drank at parties. Bought stuff for friends. Then I started buying for myself. Drinking at home alone. Some nights, when I was bored. Or lonely. Then every night. And when I found out Daisy—"
"Yeah."
"If there was a moment, it was that."
"You couldn't deal with the guilt?"
He nods. "And then I'd drink and hate myself for it. For numbing my shit instead of being there to help her. For being a fucking hypocrite. For lacking the willpower. And it just grew from there. Before I knew it, I had a flask in my pocket at all times."
"You've defended the hell out of that flask."
His chuckle is weary. "I thought it was normal. It was for me."
"Until… something happened."
He nods yeah. Takes a long sip of his coffee. Swallows hard. "I drink like a fish, sure, but I'm usually smart about it. Only this time… I was at a woman's house. Doing my usual—"
"Yeah."
He continues, "she wanted to have a nightcap. Then it became two. Three. She nearly fell asleep in my arms. I had to get the fuck out of there. I knew I should call a car, but I didn't."
Oh.
"It happened fast. A bright light, honking horn, brakes squealing. Then I was in the hospital in handcuffs." He holds up his left wrist. "Sprained some shit, but nothing that wouldn't heal."
"The other car?"
"He broke a few ribs. But he didn't want to press charges. And since it was a first offense, and I wasn't quite at twice the legal limit… a four-figure fine, a shit ton of community service, and this bullshit program."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"But he is okay?"
He nods. "I could have killed him. Fuck, Luna… I don't know. I thought I was better than that. I thought I had shit under control, but… no wonder Dad looks at me like a lost cause."
My inhale is shallow. My exhale is heavy.
"You probably… I can't blame you. If you think the same thing. Everyone else does."
"Ollie—"
"Yeah?"
"It was stupid."
He nods.
"Really stupid."
"I know."
"You could have killed someone."
"I know," he says.
"You should have known better."
The hurt in his eyes deepens as he nods.
"You fucked up, yeah. But feeling sorry for yourself doesn't help."
His eyes fill with surprise.
"I'm not saying get over it. Because I know it doesn't work that way. And who am I to talk. But… stewing in guilt isn't an apology. It doesn't make things right. I know it's not as easy as—"
"You don't hate me?"
I shake my head.
"You don't want to run a million miles away?"
"No."
His voice cracks. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
He sighs with his entire body. His shoulders fall. His grip softens. His eyes fill with relief. "Luna, I…"
I don't let him finish his sentence. I hook my arm around his neck and I bring my lips to his.
I kiss him like I'm claiming him.
Maybe I am.
He is offering his heart.
I'm taking it.
And I'm not letting go.
And I'm totally fucked, because there's no coming back. And there's no going forward. Not without losing my best friend.
But I can't stop.
Because, more than anything, I need him to be mine.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Luna
I lose my ability to think straight. Or make intelligent decisions. Or do anything except fuck Oliver senseless.
It's a good word for it.
I don't have a hint of sense.
And I don't care.
After I drive home, I take Ollie to my room, strip him out of his clothes, fuck him senseless.
Join him in the shower.
Linger for far, far too long.
Somehow, we elude Gabe.
Every day, it's the same. I wake to coffee and breakfast and Oliver dripping with sweat. I ogle him as I sip my java. Then I dress, fix my hair and makeup, ruin it by making out with him.
I go to class, I study, I meet a friend for coffee or swim laps or listen to music in my room. Then I make dinner with Ollie. Eat with him and Gabe. Stay on the couch, watching trashy TV until Gabe goes to bed.
Join Oliver in his room.
I should say no, I should stay quiet, I should—at the very least—insist we drive to some distant spot where no one will catch us.
Instead, I slip out of my pajamas, groan into my hand as Oliver strokes me to orgasm, fall asleep in his arms.
So, on Friday morning, when I wake to a text from Holden—
Holden: Put on your pants.
Luna: Huh?
Holden: We're coming over.
Luna: It's like seven a.m.
Holden: Yes.
Luna: We?
Holden: Patrick and I are gonna double-team you. Get the lube ready, baby. It's gonna be crazy. Who do you think we is?
Then a picture. Him and Daisy at a coffee shop, a pot of tea on the table, early morning light surrounding them in a soft glow.
She's in a new outfit. A peach sweater dress and tall brown boots.
This is from today.
Luna: Where are you now?
Holden: On our way.
Luna: What train leaves this early?
Holden: She caught a ride with a friend. A ride. To my place.
His place is ten minutes away. On foot. In a car—
Shit.
Holden: Hope you're about to confess or you have a good cover story.
Luna: I'm getting dressed.
Holden: Tell your boy toy to get his shit together too.
Luna: I got it.
Holden: Until then.
I slip into my t-shirt and boxers. Tap Oliver on the shoulder.
He rouses. Looks up at me like I'm an angel. "Hey." He smiles. Reaches for my arm.
"Not now." I turn my cell to him.
He reads the message on the screen. "Fuck."
"Yeah."
"Get dressed. I'll make the coffee." He presses his lips to my wrist.