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“If anyone’s destroying anyone, it would be her obliterating me.” I say the words quietly, not wanting the rest of the group to overhear.
But I mean them.
Cassia has always had the power to shatter me.
Harrison’s expression is all surprise as he glances over.
“Make fewer assumptions, Baker,” I say. “I never got why girls—including my sister—had a thing for you in high school. But it probably had something to do with the ‘good guy’ thing, you acting like a saint who could throw a spiral.”
Harrison looks away.
“I don’t blame you for being interested in her. What pisses me off—then, now—is you not respecting our relationship. Iloveher. Unless she tells me to fuck off, I’m sticking around. There isn’t her side and my side, it’s justus. You think you want what’s best for her? That’s nothing compared to how much I care. Accept that, respect our relationship, and we won’t have any issues.”
“Okay,” he says.
“Great.”
We reach the front door.
The party inside looks similar to Richmond’s parties. With important distinctions.
Cassia isn’t here.
My teammates aren’t here.
Unless any guys on Arlington’s basketball team show up and decide to start shit, I’m just one more person in a crowded room.
I push all my responsibilities, all my obligations, all my worries far away. Follow Finn into the kitchen, shrugging off the girls who approach me as we push through the living room.
The air is hot and heavy, weighted by the scent of smoke and alcohol and sweat. It smells like loose inhibitions and bad decisions.
Finn knows exactly where he’s going. He heads straight toward the cabinet to the left of the sink, pulling out an unopened bottle of amber liquid. Whiskey. My favorite.
I take the shot he hands me and down it, the burn of alcohol sliding down my throat a relief. I don’t cough or reach for a chaser. I hold out my cup for a refill.
“Hell yeah, Adams!”
Finn fills it with twice as much this time.
I glance at Harrison, who trailed in here behind us. He looks away, grabbing a can of beer out of the fridge for himself.
I down more whiskey, the warm burn turning into numbness. The buzz is hitting me faster than usual, probably because of the pint of blood they took from me earlier. I shouldn’t be drinking at all, let alone this much.
Stupid and reckless are two synonyms for my name, though.
So I keep taking sips, the bitter five-year-old in me feeling satisfied I’m destroying the organ I might be donating.
Somehow, that feels fitting.
If I offer something to my mom, itshouldbe damaged.
The same way she mangled me and Sydney by wrecking our family.
The same way she injured my dad. If she’d stuck around, maybe he’d be alive right now.
The same way she’s messing with me, by forcing me to help her or live with the guilt of knowing I could have done something and didn’t.
I don’t just want to be different from her. I want to be better.
