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Grace gapes at me, shocked. My hand throbs like a motherfucker, but it’s nothing compared to the anguish splintering in my chest. I storm past a shocked Finn and out onto the back deck. No one else is out here—it’s freezing.
The cold feels good. Numbing.
I take a seat on the picnic table, trying to focus on the physical pain and nothing else. I don’t realize I’m bleeding until some blood drips onto the wood beneath me. I yank down the t-shirt I’m wearing beneath my sweatshirt and wrap my split knuckle in the white fabric. It’s immediately stained red.
My breaths come in ragged gasps, pain and fury roiling my insides. My eyes screw tightly shut, trying to force away the images my brain conjures easily. Harrison kissing her. Touching her.Fuckingher. I’m tempted to punch another cabinet.
As angry as I am with Cassia, I’m even more furious with myself. I did this.
I pushed her away when she was only trying to help.
I made her hate me, when it was a miracle she cared in the first place.
And I knew there would be consequences. I didn’t think they’d be her coming downstairs with some guy, hair tousled andlips swollen. Didn’t know that sight would feel like a hot knife to my chest. I’ve fooled around with plenty of girls. I’ve seen most of them with other guys, and it never bothered me at all.
I should have known she’d be different. Ididknow, which is part of why I did it.
Masochism and self-sabotage are two of the things I’m best at. I knew she’d move on eventually; knew we were headed on two very different paths. If it wasn’t Harrison, it would have been someone else.
I thought a clean break sooner rather than later would be better. Would hurt less.
Except, I can’t imagine anything hurting more than this.
The screen door squeaks open. Mark steps out.
I look away, not wanting to see anyone. Definitely not wanting to talk. “Here.” He holds a bag of ice in front of me.
“I’m cold enough, thanks.”
He drops it in my lap. “For your hand, dipshit. We’ve still got a championship to win, remember?”
I can’t summon anything in me to care about basketball right now. But I grunt a “thanks” as I drop the cold bag on my split knuckles.
“You love her, huh?”
I clench my jaw so tightly I hear a crack.
Mark sighs. “Baker said he didn’t screw her.”
“He’s worried I’ll come after him.”
“Why would you do that, if you don’t care?”
I scoff. I care, and he knows I care. He’s trying to force me to admit it. Maybe I should. Pretending she doesn’t matter to me hasn’t accomplished a whole heck of a lot. It’s landed me bitter and freezing out here.
Mark sighs when I say nothing else. “He doesn’t look like a guy who just got laid. He looks like a guy who doesn’t have a shotin hell with the girl he wants.Youdo.” Mark claps my shoulder, then heads inside.
I sit for a while longer, letting the cold numb me. I’m sober, which I haven’t been in weeks.
Eventually, I fish my keys out of my pocket and walk toward my truck. I’m not sure why I came tonight. Part of me wishes I hadn’t. Now I have the sight of Cassia coming downstairs seared into my brain.
It was an attempt to return to normalcy, I guess. An acknowledgment the path I’m on is a destructive one. My dad would want better. Would be disappointed by the way I’ve acted since his death. That realization singes in a way little else has managed to affect me in weeks.
All the lights are off across the street when I park in the driveway. Cassia’s car isn’t there. The knowledge niggles against my skin like a rash, persistent and irritating. Maybe she went home with Baker. Maybe she’s still at the party, dancing and drinking.
She’s not mine. I have no claim over what she does or who she chooses to do it with. But yeah, it fucking stings.
Sydney is sitting on the couch, arms crossed, when I walk into the living room. I sigh, then drop my keys in the dish on the coffee table.
