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I go to her Mini, squeezing myself in behind the wheel. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter, feeling around under the seat for a lever to push the seat back. And even then, I feel like I’m squished into a can of sardines. “This can’t be safe,” I say, starting it up and moving it to the side of the drive to allow cars to pass.
I stomp my way back to her and throw myself in the seat. Is she smiling? What the fuck is there to smile about? I’m fucking livid, and not only because she stole a rare piece of heaven from me.
I start my Aston and fly out of the gates. No matter how much I try to talk myself down, I can’t, but if I don’t take this unwarranted, unusual, unwanted anger out on the road, then Ava will cop it, and that would be a sure-fire way of severing any possibility of fixing this fucking mess.
I glance across the car to her. She’s looking out of the window, quiet. Tense. Do Iwantto fix this? Yes, the feelings I feltwereamazing, but this? This anger? It’s not me, and it doesn’t feel good at all. How can someone drive you to the highest heights of desire and to the deepest depths of despair?
I return my attention to the road, mulling that over for the rest of the journey as Ava gives me short, snappy directions. I’ve still not found an answer by the time we’re in her neighborhood.
“It’s left at the end of the road,” she says, clipped. I do a left. “Just there on the right.”
I pull in, and she’s out of the car like a bullet. “Ava,” I call, reaching for her keys to hand back. The door is slammed, and she’s up the garden path to the front door fast. I peer up at the house. It’s small. Modest. Cute.
I look down at her keys in my hand, thinking.
Just for a second.
Then I throw them on the seat and roar off.
6
I fall backagainst the door of my rental, looking at the ceiling. My fucking jaw is aching like a bitch, my body still wired, every inch of me tense. My eyes land on the cabinet, the surface bare. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, in and out, in and out. She ran. It’s time for me to walk away.
But there’s something. I know I’m a total fuck-up, but I’m not completely delusional.
I hope.
My hands come up to my head, and I attempt to force the images and words away. My heartbeat feels sluggish. My head aches. My stomach is constantly twisting, whether with anxiety or anticipation. I can’t let this rule me. I feel more destructive now than I ever have.
Self-sabotage. I’m a master at it, and it seems Miss O’Shea could be both a cause and the cure.
My hands are shaking. Drink. I need a drink. “Fuck.” I stalk to the fridge, grabbing a jar of my vice and taking it to the couch. Tossing the lid aside, I scoop out a huge dollop and shove my finger in my mouth, pulling off the peanut butter and closing my eyes. Rest. I just need to rest my eyes and my mind for a moment.
Jake frowns at me across the lounge as I work my way happily through the jar. “You’re gross,” he mutters, disappearing out of the room and returning a few moments later. He drops down on the couch next to me and unscrews the lid of his own jar. “Crunchy all the way.” He shoves his finger in his pot of crunchy peanut butter and shovels out a big helping, wrapping his grinning mouth around his finger.
“Fucking weirdo,” I mutter, unable to hold back my smile. “Smooth. It’s got to be smooth.”
No!
I snap my eyes open.
Inhale.
And throw the jar across the room on a thunderous roar, my head going into my hands, trying to suppress the torture. Trying to shy away from a time just before my life fell apart. Just before the downward spiral started. I can’t escape. And I don’t deserve to.
I jump up from the couch and take myself to the bathroom, stripping out of my clothes on my way. And I stand in front of the mirror, gazing at my reflection, my eyes drifting to my scar. I rest my finger on the edge and trace the jagged line. I’m beyond hope. Broken.
And I’d be stupid to think she could fix me.
I spent Wednesday hiding. Hiding from the world, from my friends, from my thoughts. I ignored endless calls from endless people, buried under my duvet.
Hiding from the alcohol.
They can’t see me like this.
The moment I open my eyes on Thursday, I throw the sheets back and force myself out of bed, pulling my shorts on quickly and heading out the door. I run. I run so fast, so hard. I lose all feeling in my legs, and if I run even harder, even faster, I’m hoping I will lose all feelingseverywhere. Be rid of this madness. Be numb.
Yet with the wind whooshing past, my eyes trained on the path before me, endless, tormenting flashbacks hound me, goad me, remind me of that extreme sense of unrestrained abandon. One by one, my bastard memories of Tuesday evening play out, a few agonizing splinters of my history joining the chaos in my head. “No.” My pace increases. Run away from them.
