It wasn’t until I was back in my car and the smooth scent of the liquor hit the back of my nose that I realized why I’d picked that particular alcohol. I never drank scotch, but I’d craved something smoky, spicy—because it was the closest I could get to the cinnamon that clung to Hendrix. That stupid gum he chewed . . . the scent always lingered, it was always on his tongue, in his kisses, on his breath as he told me he hated me.
I ground my teeth against the threatening tears and took a big swig, the alcohol so smooth it hardly even burned my throat. It just warmed my chest and belly, already numbing the pain, already giving me something else to focus on.
With every drink, I forced myself to think of other things that weren’t him. Campfires, cigars, the smoked cheese Harlow and I had gorged ourselves on during our last family trip to Paris.
I didn’t know how long I’d sat in my car, drinking and trying not to think about Hendrix, but nearly half the bottle was gone when I decided I did indeed need to go to Davey’s. I couldn’t go home, and I didn’t want to sit in the car alone, crying and drinking. It was the one place that never failed to let me get lost, let me forget everything.
As I pulled into the parking lot, I made myself breathe, focus. I couldn’t go smashing into parked cars. Not when I’d finally made it. Even though I was a fucking mess, that little part of my logical brain had managed to remind me to take the back streets instead of the freeway, to drive slowly. I was irrationally annoyed at how long it had taken to get here. Self-preservation was so weird . . .
I parked the car in the back of the lot where there was more room, where I was able to park across two spots at a weird angle and hit the divider without anyone noticing. Then I grabbed the bottle from the passenger seat, swung the door wide open, and hauled myself out. My vision blurred, and I took a moment to steady myself before walking toward the front entrance, leaving my car open, my purse just sitting there, the keys still in the ignition. Nothing mattered anymore.
I took another swig as my heels crunched in the gravel, my footing uneven. I’d changed into a low-cut gray top and applied dark eyeliner before I decided it actually didn’t matter what I wore. My school skirt and socks had stayed on, and I’d added a pair of heeled Mary Janes to complete the weird ensemble. I was pretty sure I looked like some slutty porn version of a school girl with my cleavage hanging out and the heels on, but I didn’t care.
I had no idea who I was anymore, which version of myself I was pretending to be. The clothes were a representation of all the lies I’d told to everyone, to myself. Of this ugly downward spiral I was on and didn’t care to prevent.
The good girl gone bad . . . rotten to the core.
“Donna.” My name. His voice, so rough, so demanding, no—pleading.
I gritted my teeth and took another swig from the bottle. I’d pushed the image of his tortured face from my mind so hard that now I was hearing him in my head.
“Donna!” Louder, more insistent. The sound of crunching gravel wasn’t just from my own unsteady steps.
I stopped. He was here. My heart soared.
He was here. My heart plummeted into the dirty gravel at my feet.
I turned, resigned. But I didn’t see Hendrix. No, the first thing my addled, fucked-up mind latched on to was Harlow.
My sister stopped, her eyes wide, taking me in. There were a few feet between us—an entire ocean, the Grand Canyon. Mena stood next to her, tears trailing down her cheeks unabashedly as she watched the train wreck I’d become, had been for so long already. Amaya was on Harlow’s other side, hands on hips, breathing hard. The other two were shocked, worried, upset, and Amaya probably was too, but she was the most like me. In the moment, she was ready to take charge, ready to get answers, ready to fix the situation.
Well, I wasn’t a situation, and this couldn’t be fixed. I frowned, fighting the dizziness from the alcohol. “What . . . how did you know . . .”
That’s when I spotted Hendrix. He was standing behind my friends, his face cast in shadow from one of the few lights still operational in the parking lot.
He was here. He’d come after me despite everything. He was here . . .
He’d brought my friends here . . .
What had he told them? Who else knew?
I narrowed my eyes, homing in on the one person who could make me feel more angry—more alive—than any other. I focused on Hendrix as my world fell apart.
“What the fuck have you done?” I sneered, my breathing getting faster and faster.
He blinked but didn’t look surprised I was turning my rage on him.
“You’ve ruined everything.” I seethed, taking a few wobbling steps forward.
As one, my friends moved toward me, ready to steady me, to break my fall. But maybe I needed to crash into the filthy gravel, let it scrape away all the ugly parts of me until nothing but clean, raw blood showed. I couldn’t look at them.
I threw the bottle between us, stopping them in their tracks. The bottle didn’t even break—just thumped to the ground and started spilling amber liquid.
Gravel dug into my soles as I tugged off my shoes and kept moving toward Hendrix on unsteady feet.
“I told you to keep your mouth shut. I told you not to tell anyone. I told you to leave me alone.” I threw my shoes to the ground, like a toddler throwing toys.
I was directly in front of him now, wishing I’d kept the shoes on so I wouldn’t have to look up to meet his resigned stare.
“I told you!” I screamed into his face.
He pressed his lips together but didn’t respond, hardly moved other than the rise and fall of his labored breathing. He was barely keeping it together too.
But I didn’t give a shit. This was my mental breakdown. He could wait his turn.
The realization that that was what was happening to me—that I was acting like a completely unhinged, crazed lunatic—was the last straw. Because that’s what I was.
Unhinged.
Driving drunk.
Throwing things.
Screaming at people.
Crazy.
Lunatic.
The tears I’d been holding at bay all day burst out of me—a dam breaking. But even as I started crying, sobbing, I railed against what was happening to me. What I’d allowed myself to become.
“Why?” I cried as I shoved Hendrix. He hardly even leaned back at the force of my hands on his chest. “Why did you tell them? They know. They can see. I’m . . . I begged you . . .”
I pounded his chest with my fists, pulled at his sweatshirt. “You told them my secret but I kept yours!”
When the reality of the situation washed over me, I made myself look up into his eyes again. His jaw was tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek as if he was grinding his teeth, his eyes blazing with emotions I was not equipped to decipher in my current state.
But he was still there, still standing as solid as a stone pillar.
How many times had he saved me—from myself?
I sobbed, the energy draining out of me as I dropped my gaze.
“I kept your secret.” The anger that had edged my voice just moments before drained away, and I gripped his sweatshirt. “It wasn’t me, Hendrix. I didn’t . . . I would never . . . I’m sorry.”
His hands landed on my back just as my knees wobbled. He was finally touching me, finally holding me.
“Please believe me. Please, please, please . . .” I had no idea what I was pleading for. My voice was barely above a whisper as I sagged against him.