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“Madison,” Tate says gently, her hand on my arm. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, Tate. That’s the problem. I just—I feel like he’s keeping shit from me, and then tonight I open Instagram and see some girl sitting on his lap.” My eyes collide with hers. “Everyone knows he’s mine, Tate, who would be that bold to do that?”
“Whoever she is, she’s going to meet my knuckles.” Tate moves to one of the stalls and pulls down her jeans.
I point to the door. “You going to close that just in case someone enters?”
“What?” She waves me off. “Hell no. No, seriously.” She flushes and meets me back at the sink where I’ve slid up to sit on the counter. “You both need to sort this out. Talk to him, Madison. He loves you.”
“I love Tillie.” That’s not what I wanted to say, but it comes out through a dying whisper anyway. “I’d do anything for her, especially right now, but I feel as though they’re pushing me out, you know? And that’s not on her, it’s on them.”
Tate snorts, cupping her hands beneath the water and splashing it onto her face. “No, I don’t. Those boys worship the ground you walk on. You’re irreplaceable.”
I shove off the basin and grab her by the hand. “Fine. Let’s go dance the night away, and then I’ll go home and fuck my boyfriend.”
We continue dancing the night away, recklessly lost in the music, drugs, and dancing. It’s not until four the next morning when we’re finally dragging our weak bodies out of the club, my driver already at the curb waiting.
I hike Tate up with my arm around her waist as the driver climbs out and opens the back door. “Madison, Bishop is at home waiting.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say around my parched throat. All of that pent-up guilt raptures inside of me so viciously it almost knocks me off my axis.
As soon as I close the door behind me, I open my phone again to see even more phone calls. Shit. He’s mad. We drop Tate off at her dorm, and make our way back to the apartment, where my nerves have successfully spun themselves into a knot of full-fledged anxiety. Even as I stumble my way into the elevator, I feel my heart raging in my chest. Thud. Thud. Thud. God, he’s going to be so—
“—Where. The fuck. Have you been?” his voice is deathly shallow and instant, as soon as the private elevator doors open into our kitchen. He asks me this, but he would have known within three minutes of finding my note on the fridge.
“I’m—I just needed it.”
His hand flies to my chin, fingers flexing around my cheeks to examine my face. “Your fucking nose is bleeding, Madison.” He shoves me away like discarded trash. “Go fucking tidy yourself up.” He turns and leaves, ignoring the gaping hole in my chest that his words put there.
“Bishop!” I snap, just as he reaches the steps that lead to our bedroom. “Are you keeping more from me?” I watch as the muscles in his back flex. He’s fighting with himself right now, and I know I’ve got him. “You said you wouldn’t…” The words are a soft whisper.
“Do you fucking blame us for keeping shit from you, Madison? Are you fucking kidding me? You’re a fucking liability right now. You can’t keep your fucking nose clean, and instead of coming to me like an adult about something that has upset you, you’re still partying like we’re in fucking high school!”
I flinch as his final words end in a roar. He shakes his head, running his hands through his hair.
“I don’t know, Mads. You can’t seem to keep your shit together and I don’t fucking need this right now, okay? I fucking don’t.” He leaves, and my body trembles to the cold tiles in the kitchen, drawing my knees up to my chest while resting my head against them.
He hates me.
I’ve failed him.
He’s right, to an extent. I haven’t made any extra effort to include myself. If anything, I’ve pulled back. Am I jealous? So used to being the only girl in the group, I haven’t adapted to Tillie becoming such an important person to all the Kings. I should be happy—I love Tillie. She is my best friend. Madison, you’re a fucking idiot.
On top of all of that, I was supposed to be this person to him. Someone strong, someone he could rely on. Instead, I’m a liability. The aftershocks of his words cripple me as time goes on.
An hour.
Two.
It’s not until I force myself up from the floor with a grunt of my knees that I realize I stayed curled up there for three hours.
Putting my phone on the charger on my bedside table, I scrub through the shower and shuffle into fresh clothes. I take extra time to blow dry my hair, apply face creams, and swallow vitamins like I didn’t just snort an eight ball the night before. Sliding on some fluffy socks and one of Bishop’s old Riverside hoodies, I inwardly chant the same mantra in my head. You’re going to do better. You’re going to be strong. You are not weak, you’re just lost. I know deep down he’s right. I know that right now, I’m not being the woman he needs me to be because I’m too busy caught up in the girl I was.
