Page 54 of A Tragic Melody

“These things happen.” He shrugs. “I got a good settlement, but I didn’t need it. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Just bad luck. You want to know the really unfortunate part?”

“Sure.”

“I was supposed to be in that car. They were going to tour a college for my sister. They wanted it to be a family trip, but at the last minute a spot at a local show opened up. I couldn’t pass up the chance, but I should’ve,” he whispers softly. “I walked off the stage to a voice message asking me to go down to a hospital a few towns over to identify the bodies. Not that there was much body left to identify.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Yeah, it really is.” A low chuckle leaves his mouth. “Can you imagine how much better you’d feel right now if I had been in that car?” He glances over at me.

“That’s not…”

“But instead here I am, waiting for you to destroy me.”

“Wyatt…” I whisper.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t feel so good.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Tuesday barely finishes her sentence before puking up water all over the table. She heaves when she is done, resting her head on the table. Her body shakes, sweat covering her forehead and arms, making her blonde hair stick to her body. She chokes out sobs.

“Oh God,” she groans.

“It’s alright.” I rub her back. “Let’s get you to your bunk.”

“No,” she mumbles. “I can’t move.”

“Yes you can. I’ll help you.”

“Just kill me.” She lifts her head. “You win. I’m an addict. Now go get me my fucking drugs.”

“If you push past this, you’ll be one step closer to being free. To getting better.”

“Fuck getting better. I’m not built for being sober. I don’t care if that makes me an addict. Get. Me. My. Drugs.”

“No.” I push at her until she slips out of the booth. “If you want them, get them yourself.” She drops to the floor beside the booth.

“Wyatt, please. I feel like shit. Help me.”

“I’ve been trying,” I snap back. “I’m just not helping you get high.”

“You made your fucking point. You are in fact better than me. You win. Just please help it stop.”

“No. I’m not helping you kill yourself.”

“Haven’t died yet,” she challenges. “Please.” She rests her head on the ground.

“No,” I say standing up. She looks small beneath me. Not like last night, when she was sexy. Now she just looks small, broken, and sad.

“Fine. Fuck you,” she snaps. “Quinn!” she shouts.

I sigh, grabbing paper towels and beginning to clean up her vomit. Thankfully, it’s mostly water.

“What?” Quinn asks, walking out. He glances down at her, then looks up at me. “What’s going on?”

“Drug me,” Tuesday says, lifting her head.