The sound of his name leaving her mouth makes me nauseous. Knowing what she wantsfrom him, or more specifically, how she wantshim, makes me feral.
“No,” I answer shortly, pulling my door open.
Cassie sighs. “Me neither.” Then, after a moment of contemplation, she speaks again. “I was pretty shocked to see Julian, uh,withAtlas that night. Not that I’m hurt; I never truly intended to get with him anyway. But still… I would have never guessed it.”
“Is that why you’re ignoring his messages?” I ask, remembering how he messaged Cassie a couple of times after that night, asking to meet us for coffee or to check on how she was doing.
“No,” she insists, shaking her hair. Long brown strands frame her face, making her appear small and fragile. “I’m just… It’s clear that getting close to him won’t give me what I want. There’s no point in…”
Cassie’s words trail off, and as a soft blush coats her cheeks, I’m overcome with disgust. Toward both of us.
“No point in using him any further?” I demand, my knuckles turning white where I grip the edge of the door.
Cassie gives me a long, sympathetic look.
“Were you not doing the same?” she whispers.
I have no answer to this, as she’s right. I was using Julian to get into Chastain Castle just as desperately as she was, even if the rest of our friends aren’t aware of it.
They have no idea that the reason Julian no longer comes around isn’t that he’s busy or because Kim ghosted his friend, but thatwehave ghostedhim.
“I know what we did wasn’t necessarily right, and I know I sort of dragged you into it at first,” Cassie continues, reaching out to lay her hand over mine. “But I just wanted to see him, to talk to him. And I know you did, too. It sucks that he was so unwillingand that he’s still so angry with us. You would think a few years would have been enough time for him to—”
“Enough,” I cut in, my own voice rough with emotion.
I can’t take it anymore. I can’t handle the reminder of how much Atticus despises Cassie and me, how I hurt him, and how I turned around and used someone else as a stepping stool in an attempt to fix it all.
I can’t stand to look into the mirror that’s being held up to me, right here in broad daylight.
“I have things to do,” I add quickly, sliding into my seat and shutting the door.
Cassie’s face falls, a grim frown pulling her lips downward. I have no room to feel guilty for it—that part of me is full.
By the time I get home around 8 p.m., having spent most of my day driving around and sitting on the docks with my fishing pole, Mom is inside. She’s lying on the couch, unconscious, with a bottle of whiskey in her hand.
Trash and half-eaten food are strewn around the living room, and it takes me a moment to notice the man sleeping on the recliner in the corner.
James, one of her drinking buddies. The one who puts his hands on me.
I don’t bother cleaning up—she might scream at me for it later, but I’d rather not wake her now. It seems to me that ignoring her and hiding out in my room until morning is the lesser of two evils.
Another choice I loathe having a hand in making.
With my being in my mid-twenties, having a job at my uncle’s auto shop, and having enough common sense to survive on my own, you’d think I would leave this house.
That I’d leaveher.
But it seems that it doesn’t matterhowhorrible I am; I just can’t get myself to abandon her. Not when she drinks away the memory of my father daily and fucks away her anger over losing him.
I’m far too sympathetic to losing someone you love, even if the difference between my mother and me is that it wasn’therfault she lost Dad.
And losing Atticus? That was all my doing.
Lying in bed, I stare at my ceiling, replaying memories of running into a dense forest and feeling soft, demanding lips on mine.
Of rough hands and sweet, sweet commands.
“Hands on the tree, sweetheart. If you listen well, I’ll let you finish.”
