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Like he has to teach me about regret. Like I don’t have enough regret to fill a book. Maybe a library full of them.
Now that I’m alone again, the temptation is too much to resist. I read once not long ago that the human brain only has so much room for willpower on any given day. What I read was in relation to self-improvement and physical conditioning. Get the hard shit out of the way early because you might not have the willpower later after exercising it all day long.
My willpower? It’s all being spent on avoiding Delilah. How can I be expected to resist the urge to drink, too? My fingers close around the bottle, and I unscrew the cap, skipping over the simple act of pouring it into a glass in favor of pouring it down my throat.
The familiar heat races through me, spreading across my chest. I take another gulp, and another, connecting with the pain burning in my throat. Relishing it, even.
The jangling of the phone makes me snarl. That goddamn Lauren. When is she going to take the hint? I storm over to the desk and consider tearing the whole phone from the wall and smashing it, but instead, I lift the receiver and bark into the mouthpiece. “This better be good.”
There’s a moment of silence that jars me. A look down at the screen tells me it’s an unlisted number.
“Hello?” I mutter, listening hard.
“Lucas? Is that you?”
It’s the strangest thing. Like a spark shoots out of the receiver and travels straight to my brain, lighting up the synapses until they glow like a fucking light bulb. It’s the voice. That vaguely familiar voice.
“Yes. Who is this?” I ask though part of me knows. But it’s impossible. Something somewhere in the back of my mind tells me to hang up and forget about it. Nothing good can come of it.
Before I can do that, she speaks again. “It’s me. It’s Charlotte.”
