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“We are alright, baby girl,” I echo.
The boat jerks into high speed, and we both chuckle as we almost lose balance. She stands on her tiptoes to kiss me, and in a moment, nothing else matters as we kiss for the longest time, forgetting what’s behind us and what’s ahead.
Right now, the only thing that matters is that we finally have each other.
39
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The boat zoomsthrough the azure waters, and the farther it gets from the cargo boat, the more it hurts.
There is no anger in me anymore.
Just hurt, the throbbing of the wound that I don’t bother checking, and guilt—that fucking feeling that eats me from the inside. The one that did for years after the car accident. The same one that came back after the fire. And now it shakes its fucking forefinger at me and snarls, “I told you so.”
I was playing this shitty game to fuck with others,him, and now I am the one who grips the railing so tightly that my knuckles turn white.
I’ve lost another battle, I know. This time it’s with myself. All I ever wanted was to make things like they were before.
Walk away, I keep telling myself on repeat like a fucking mantra.
I want to turn the boat, catch up with Droga, and ask him one more time to come back. The thought is pathetic. I hate myself for it. But that’s the truth.
I want to run where nothing reminds me of who I am, what I have, and what I lost—every fucking person I ever cared about. Except for my father who wouldn’t give two fucks about me if I didn’t have the brain and talent.
“Any other instructions, boss?” Slate asks.
I want to instruct the world to fuck off.
I ignore him as I jump off the boat onto the pier before they even dock it properly, then jump on my bike and storm away from the port.
I drive at full speed, disregarding the port patrol and my team that is right on my ass.
Wind slashes my face.
No, I’m not angry. I’m hurt. Right now, my mind maps out the road ahead, the smaller paths, one of them that goes along the ocean, where I could just ride on full speed and zoom off the cliff into fucking Neverland.
I can’t forget that step back that Droga took when I offered him to stay.
That treacherous, motherfucking step.
And it’s my little bro’s smile that flashes in front of my eyes again.
“I got your back, Arch.”
As he winks in that exaggerated childish way and gets in that motherfucking car with Mom, never to come back.
Just like Droga.
The wind is warm and soft.
Too soft.
I want to smash into a wall so as to kill this inside torture with some physical pain. And I roar as I fire up my Streetfighter into maximum speed. If it hits a bump and flips, I am dead meat.
Good.
My radio beeps obsessively. So does my phone, vibrating in my pocket. Slate and his team behind me must think I am insane.
