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“I looked at you?”
“Yeah, you looked at me first,” he replies carefully, as if it’s hard to admit.
I remember that, and I’ve never told Hunter that. When he asks, I tell him I don’t remember him standing there staring at me, but I do remember part of that day. I remember Drake. But Drake never pursued me. He barely even looked at me once Hunter started talking to me.
Tears prick my eyes at the memory. But the next words out of Drake’s mouth cut me like a knife.
“I thought you were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, but I would have never gone after you. Not because of Hunter, but because I didn’t go for girls like you.”
“Girls like me?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.
“Too good for me. Too smart and pretty and nice.”
“Drake,” I say, looking up at him with tears filling my lashes.
“I’m glad he did. I’m proud of him for doing right by you.”
I believe his words, but I see a pain behind his eyes as he whispers them. And I don’t know what to say. I want to tell him that I love him—that I’ve always loved him, just as much as I love Hunter and in the same way, but I’m not sure that admission would help anything right now.
“I know you think I’m just a man whore who never wants to settle down, but I’ve always wanted a wife like you, Isabel. And recently, I’ve realized that I just wantyou.”
Another tear rolls down the side of my face, landing on his arm. I’m still speechless as I gaze into his eyes. It’s clear there are no words left to say, so he kisses my forehead and closes his eyes, drifting off to sleep quickly as I lie there and let his drunk confessions seep in, committing them to memory, where I will keep them forever.
Rule #24: Wake up.
Hunter
My dreams arewarped and restless. First, I’m feeling around the darkness for him, but my hands keep finding the wrong people. It’s all foreign flesh under my fingertips when all I want to find is the one my body knows by heart. Every time I think I’ve found him, he slips away.
Then, when I do get my hands on him in the pitch-black room, I feel the rope against his skin, but it’s wound around him too tight. It’s restricting his movement and his breathing, and I begin to panic as I struggle to find the end of the rope to untie him. He’s whispering my name, asking for me.
Hunter, is that you?
Hunter, get me out of this thing.
Hunter, help me.
But I can’t help him. No matter how much I try, I’m useless. The only thing holding me back is my own stupid pride and fear. Why didn’t I pay better attention during those workshops? Why was I always slipping away to do business? I should have been there.
Now Isabel is untying him and it’s not so dark anymore. She’s undoing his knots like it’s the simplest thing. Why couldn’t I do that? She’s staring at me with gentle impatience on her face—not anger because she understands it’s not my fault. But how long will she make this easy for me? How long will she allow me to fuck up before she’s had enough?
When she gets Drake untied, he goes to her. They cling to each other while I watch, but it’s not like before, when watching them got me excited. Now I just feel alone.
Someone jerks me away from them. It’s the asshole from the club in Austin and he’s pummeling his fist against my face. He just keeps punching me until he’s not that man anymore—now, he’s my father.
And I know why he’s punching me. Heknows. He found out what Drake and I did in the dark room of that club and the sneer on his face is full of disgust and hatred. And I’m drowning in his disappointment. He never really liked me anyway, and maybe this is why. Maybe he’s always known.
His punches are accompanied by words like weapons—faggot, queer, pussy. I just let him hit me. I don’t fight or try to stop him. Just like the words, I let him berate me with the things that are supposed to hurt me, his fists and his insults.
But as he pummels me into the ground, until I’m nothing but a clump of broken flesh on the floor, I realize I don’t feel anything. The punches don’t hurt. And neither do the names.
They slide through me as if I’m being beaten by a ghost. Because heisa ghost. Even beyond the grave, this sad old man, who drank himself to death years ago, is trying to hurt me. But he can’t, not anymore.
And just like that, he’s gone. I’m lying on the floor of the ornate room in New Orleans where everything changed, and their faces come into my vision. They’re urging me to get up. They are naked and so am I, but I’m too paralyzed by the damage my father’s done to me that I can’t move. Even if there’s not a drop of blood on my face, I lie there as if I’m bleeding out.
Get up, baby. Come to bed with us.
Her voice sounds so real, my eyes pop open in surprise. Lifting my head from the pillow, I look around for her, but the room is empty. And so is my bed. Grabbing my phone off the nightstand, I check the time: 8:22 a.m.
