Page 7 of Toxic Kiss

He laughs harder this time, and it feels like he’s dragging my heart across broken glass.

“Hell no. I’m not hitting it again after today, so no, you won’t meet her. I have no interest in her turning all doe-eyed and thinking I’m her boyfriend or some shit, especially with the tour coming up. I want to tap a new girl every night, not the same boring girl who’s hoping I’ll settle down. Lame.”

Tears flood my eyes and spill hot down my cheeks. Each word is a blade, carving out the fragile thing I gave him last night.

I stumble back from the door, pressing a hand over my mouth so he won’t hear the sob clawing its way up my throat. My chest aches like it might split.

He doesn’t care, not even a little. He never did. I was a way to relax and get through the withdrawal pains. Now I am being thrown away like a used tissue.

To him, I’m a joke. A pathetic girl with wide eyes and misplaced hope.

I run to my room and lock the door before collapsing. Sobs wrack my body as a cold fury takes over. I hate him. I hate this house. I hate my life. I hate myself for believing for even one second that Cyrus could be anything but a venomous snake.

Fine. Fuck him. Fuck this place. Fuck all of it.

Grabbing my suitcase from the closet, I throw it onto the bed. Clothes, books, whatever I can shove inside. It all goes in. My acceptance letter to one of the most prestigious schools in New York has been sitting on my desk for weeks. Now it’s on top of the pile. Am I strong enough to do this? Until this moment, I haven’t been sure.

Now I am.

Cyrus has given me the push I need to take my life into my own hands.

Before I zip the suitcase, I walk over to my nightstand. My fingers hover above the photo frame. Me and Mom. Her smile, my arm around her waist, everything warm and safe in that one frozen moment. I pick it up with shaking hands.

Kissing my fingertips, I press them to the glass and whisper, “I’ll make you proud.” Then I slide it into my suitcase and zip it closed.

I turn to leave, but stop when I notice the photo of me, Patrick, and Cyrus stuck to my mirror. Patrick had invited me to a beach party. One of the last great memories I have. I yank it down and stare at it, my eyes tracing our three faces.

Cyrus is actually sorta smiling for the camera. His icy-blue eyes are bright in the flash and the surrounding darkness. His dark brown hair with the frosted highlights, which I normally hate, looks amazing on him. He’s not wearing a shirt, and his tattoos stand out against his skin.

My hands shake. This picture holds power. It feels like I’m about to rip a moment in time out of my past. A moment I’ll never get back. Taking a deep breath, I remove Cyrus and drop his image in the garbage before slipping the rest of the photo into my backpack.

Heart pounding out of control, I look around my bedroom. My chest still burns, but my resolve is set.

No one, not even Cyrus, can talk me into staying now. I head toward the ensuite and turn on the shower taps, whatever it takes to wash him off me. Wash the memory of us off my skin. If only it were so easy to do the same to my mind.

When I walk out of this room, I’m gone. Gone from Cyrus. Gone from this house. Gone from being the pathetic girl. No more. Despite my father wanting me to stay and intern at his company, this is what I need.

Cyrus will think he broke me, but really, he set me free. There’s strength in hate, the kind that burns hotter than grief and sharper than hope.

Goodbye, California. Hello, New York.

chapter

four

PRESENT DAY

“You don’t endure because you’re unbroken. You endure because there’s no other way.” – Cyrus

HAVEN

Nine hours down. Five to go.

The highway stretches in front of me, the horizon blurring under the weight of summer heat. The windows are down, hair whips around my face, my voice is off-key as I belt out lyrics like the car is my private stage. Freedom to me smells like gasoline and tastes like candy. I swear every road trip deserves its own dessert name.

New Orleans is the beignet. Florida, the key lime pie. Canada, the beaver tail. Today’s trip? Something bittersweet. Maybe tiramisu, but layered, heavy, and dusted with chocolatey regret.

Dad says I missed my calling as a baker or dessert influencer. Maybe he’s right. But baking doesn’t feel like kissing freedom on the lips the way driving does. I think a long-haul trucker is a better choice. He’s not a fan of that idea.