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For a split second, I consider leaving, going back to Christian’s couch and the safety of his apartment.
Instead, I nod before getting to my feet. “Whatever. Doesn't matter.”
None of this fucking matters.
Arnie laughs softly. “That’s what I thought.”
When he presses the baggie into my palm, I don’t resist. I just duck into his small bathroom, the window already cracked to let in cool air. City lights prevent the stars from shining, but I know those fuckers can still see me.
“Just a line,” I whisper, emptying the powder onto the sink.
Just one. Just enough to make the pain go away.
Leaning down, I snort it all off the porcelain in one go. It burns so fucking bad, but dizzying relief floods my senses, cruel in how it makes my body feel too light for how heavy I am inside.
Briefly, I forget about Arnie and Christian. I forget everything except the euphoria lighting up my synapses.
When I blink rapidly, my reflection blurs in the rippled mirror. Bloodshot eyes, pupils huge. I look like a ghost wearing someone else’s skin.
A hoarse laugh bursts out of me. “Fuck you, asshole.”
“You can hate me tomorrow.”
Somewhere beyond the door, a voice howls with wicked laughter. The sound crawls under my skin, and I scratch at my face to get it out. Out, out, get the fuck out of here.
“You can hate me tomorrow.”
The high hums in my veins, too loud. Nausea churns in my gut. What the fuck did Arnie give me? This isn't fucking coke.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see those stars—fake and merciless like they've always been.
Before I know it, I'm on the floor, but it's all wrong. How can I be so low when I'm falling from the sky? Alone, cold, and burning up with chills.
It doesn’t make any sense.
Christian’s words float across my vision like a string of lights leading me into the abyss.
“You can hate me tomorrow. You're not leaving like this.”
The laughter outside gets louder—or maybe that’s just in my head. Everything echoes around me. My fingers curl into the filthy concrete as I gag, vomit crawling up my throat. A broken sob rips out of me.
“I didn’t mean to,” I choke, though there’s no one here to listen. “I just want it to stop.”
You can hate me tomorrow.
I'm sorry.
I just want it to stop.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Christian
Taylor's birthday party is already in full swing by the time I walk through the door. Shame Shame by Foo Fighters thumps over the bass as laughter and the scent of roasted meat fill the air. Everyone's already here.
Shutting the door, I lean against it and give myself a moment to take in the old townhouse. It looks exactly like it did the last time I was here almost four years ago—living room behind the hardwood stairs, small kitchen to the right. A banner hangs above me, reading “Happy Birthday Taylor” in big sparkly letters.
That was probably Salem’s idea. Or Owen's. They were both here last time too, when this place belonged to Matty and Xed. That was the night I started dating Arya. I can still remember how cute she looked in her tight little skirt, blonde hair all curled and shiny. That was also about the same time Taylor and Huck started dating.
