Page 114 of Before You Fell

“Make every choice I make now sound like proof I can’t be trusted with myself.”

His anger falters and fear shows through. He looks older than he did yesterday.

“I am trying to protect you,” he says.

“I know.” My voice shakes, but I keep it steady. “And I love you for it. But you can’t protect me by taking every decision out of my hands because you’re scared. I’m embarrassed enough, sitting here with everyone knowing I fucked up so badly that I need a month away from my own life.” My throat aches around the words. “Please don’t make me feel like I can’t make one choice.”

Dad looks toward the glass, where Phoenix now stands.

Dad’s mouth tightens. “I don’t understand why you still want him anywhere near you after what he became.”

The words strike a chord in me because I see his exact viewpoint. Cocky rockstar. Arrogance. The entitled asshole. A man who chased strangers screaming his name and somehow stopped seeing the girl who had been standing by his side all along.

However, Dad is not privy to the entire situation. He doesn’t know how much it hurt not having Phoenix in my life, even though I tried so hard to convince myself I could survive without him.

He is ignorant of the fact that Phoenix’s absence did not feel like being set free. It felt like cutting out the part of me that still knew how to breathe.

I stare down at my hands. “No matter what he does, he will always be part of my life, Dad.”

Dad lets out a sigh. He remembers the two of us joined at the hip. Schoolbags dumped by the door. Notebooks spread across the kitchen table. Phoenix stealing food off my plate while I pretended to hate it.

He just doesn’t understand how that boy became this man. And, honestly, neither do I.

Dad looks back through the glass, his face hard as his eyes stay fixed on Phoenix. “I don’t like it. If he turns this into another Phoenix Stone performance, he is done.”

Dad drives mum and I to my apartment. Phoenix already left to pick up a rental car and I hate that some stupid part of me notices how relieved he looked when he realized I’m allowing him to drive me to rehab.

One hour. That is all I have given him. One hour in a car with me before I hand myself over to strangers with calm voices and polite accusations.

My apartment is the first humiliation.

The second Dad opens the door, I see exactly what I left behind. Dirty dishes stacked by the sink. Clothes thrown over the back of the couch. A pair of heels lying on their sides near the hallway, abandoned. Empty glasses on the coffee table. Notebooks on the floor, some open, but mostly blank. A pen with its cap off bleeding ink onto a page that has nothing written on it.

Nothing says I’m fine like an apartment that looks as if I got drunk and redecorated it.

Mom moves first, crossing the room too quickly, already reaching for the mess.

“Mom,” I say. “Leave it.”

She stops with a glass in her hand and I can’t look at her face.

Dad’s either.

There is no way I can stand here while they see every ugly little piece of evidence that I was falling apart long before the bathroom floor made it official.

I move toward my bedroom before I start crying in the doorway.

In my room, I open my suitcase and lay it on the bed. I pack quickly, desperate to get out before they can examine the mess I made of my life. Clothes. Underwear. Toiletries. A jumper. My hairbrush. Phone charger. Notebook.

I zip the suitcase and rest my hands on top of it because they are shaking.

By the time I move back into the living room, Mom and Dad both turn their gazes to me. The wheels of my suitcase roll too loudly over the wooden floorboards, as if even my luggage wants to announce that I have fucked up badly enough to need a month away.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

A knock at the door has Dad moving.

Phoenix stands in the hallway, his hair still a mess. I can tell he has not showered or changed. His eyes find me immediately before flicking to my suitcase.