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Chapter seventeen
I didn’t feel things like heartache or empathy. My emotions tended to rest on the verge of either rage or pleasure. That is where I found my comfort. This… this fuckingknottwisting in my stomach, the anguish simmering beneath the surface, ready to claw through my skin—this was new.
The two security guards ended up releasing me—after they’d called my mom to pick me up. We fed everyone some bullshit story about a car accident to keep them from questioning what the fuck happened to my face.
I wished there had been an accident. Maybe I wouldn’t have survived.
I wished the chubby guard had bigger balls. Maybe he would’ve pulled the trigger.
Now, I lay on my bed, fully dressed with my feet crossed at the ankles, staring down at my Italian leather shoes. I glanced over at the bag of pills on my dresser and sighed. Nothing would take this pain away.
Not a god damn thing.
I’d had this suit custom-tailored for this very moment. I was surrounded by light gray walls and colorful art strategically displayed in picture frames. The sun blared in through the open window. But all I felt was darkness. It was cold and grave and reeked of memories and broken promises.
“Are you ready?” Mom asked, her soft voice floating from the doorway into my room. She sounded sorry.
I knew she wasn’t.
Everyone judged Lyric when she was alive, and it only got worse after her death.
Overdose.
Her name would forever be tainted with that goddamn word.
Today was her funeral and as much as I wanted to go—as much as I knew I should go—my body would not fucking move.
So, I laid here, staring at these fucking shoes while a million questions raced through my mind.
Why did it kill her and not do shit to me?
Why couldn’t I just have fucked her like a normal person?
Why couldn’t I justbenormal?
Why? Why? Why?
“Lincoln?”
“I’m not going,” I said, never looking away from my shoes.
She exhaled a loud sigh but didn’t argue. We weren’t attending the funeral for my benefit, anyway. We were going for Tatum.
I fucked Lyric in secret. I fell for her in secret. Now I would mourn her in secret.
My mom walked away, clicking the door closed behind her, and I reached over to grab my phone.
Hi, this is Lyric and you got my voicemail, which means you should probably hang up and text me instead.
The walls started closing in around me. I wanted to move. I wanted so fucking badly to jump out of this bed and destroy everything in this room. This… whatever the fuckthisfeeling was called… was all-consuming. It was violent and gripping, and it had a hold of me and would not let the fuck go. Inside, I was roaring. Outside, I was numb.
I hung up and called back.
Hi, this is Lyric and you got my voicemail, which means you should probably hang up and text me instead.
Her voice was so sweet, so calm, so. Fucking.Her. I wanted to record it and put it on a playlist so she could talk me to sleep every night.
The second tears I’d ever shed in my entire life fell down my face and onto the pillow, and the mattress felt as if it could swallow me whole.
I placed the phone on my chest and closed my eyes, holding my finger over the green circle.
Hi, this is Lyric and you got my voicemail, which means you should probably hang up and text me instead.
My chest ached. It hurt so bad I could barely breathe. My sheets still smelled like her.
I choked on a sob. “I’m sorry, baby,” I said to her voicemail. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
