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Lucas Marchand steps from the cop car, and I am unsure whether to feel relieved or terrified. Lucas is Briggs’s father, and while he’s slowly coming around to liking Xan, he has historically hated my family.
“Mr. Stryker,” Lucas says, gripping the belt on his uniform.
“Sir,” I grit, wobbling slightly.
“Are you having a good night?” he asks.
I jam my hands in my pockets and shrug. I rock back on my heels, praying I don’t fall over. Lucas’s edges are blurred, and the crispness I felt with the bat in my hand is gone.
I glance down at his leg—the one that was broken when he was hit by a car on a routine traffic stop. The way Briggs’s stalker made sure she came home to Raston was by running him down.
A fresh bout of reality slams through my drunken state, reminding me of Nova. She’s being blackmailed, and what am I doing? Pouting and drinking and smashing up old cars to make myself feel something again. The hollowness in my chest slowly begins to fill with regret.
“I got a call about noise out here,” Marchand continues. “I’m guessing the boys are with you?”
I shake my head. “No, sir. Just me.”
Lucas knows I’m lying, and he tips his head back a little as if getting a better look at my face. My hat is low, and the hood is up. My shoulders square up at his scrutiny, but not like I’d challenge him. Growing up a Stryker makes us used to this kind of stare—the one that wonders what value we’ll ever bring to the world. Trouble just sticks to us like the stench of skunk.
After a moment, his features soften, and a small smile pulls at his lip. He shakes his head like Xan does when Millie does something slightly embarrassing or rude. It twists up everything in my body in an instant because Lucas Marchand has never let me off the hook.
“Come on, then.” Lucas gestures to the car, lights still flashing. “Get in, and I’ll give you a ride home.”
I glance back at the trees, and my friends’ shadows are gone. They left me behind, just like I asked them to.
The resistance roots me to the ground, not wanting to get in the car. I have never before been in a cop car without being arrested, and this simple invitation for a ride home strikes my distrust.
“Come on,” he says, opening the door for me. “Let’s get you home to your family.”
Alcohol can make me forget or repress the feelings that eat me alive, but it also can create a free-flowing river of memories and feelings that are triggered by the simplest of things.
He saysfamilyin such a way, with softness but an undercurrent of judgment—which means he’s talking about Nova. The baby.
I finally move, getting in the car and lowering my head into my hands. The vehicle lurches forward, and Lucas drives in silence to my house. He parks the car and gets out to open my door. Before I can turn away, he puts a hand on my shoulder, and I look at him.
It’s all backwards. My mind is a tangled mess. I just want a huge glass of water, a greasy snack, and my own bed.
“Happy New Year, Zeke,” he says, just like Nova did. Like the words didn’t mean what they’re supposed to mean. NotHappy New Year, have fun with your friends, but,Happy New Year, as in,this is the night of choices, and so far, you’re making all the wrong ones.
“Thank you,” I say, stepping back from his grip and the weird, fatherly vibe he’s giving off. “You, too.”
I turn away and pause on the lawn. In the basement window, I can see Nova, asleep on the couch with Tabby. Del’s curled up in the chair, and I can’t see Pris. Briggs and Cadence are sitting at the table, and Briggs’s gaze flickers to the window, and her head tilts in confusion.
There’s no way I can face them. No way I look any of them in the eye, especially Nova.
I’m failing her, and my family is picking up the slack and covering for me. Bailing me out of my own shitty choices.
Instead of going down the stairs to the apartment, I head through the front door into my quiet house, straight up the stairs to the attic, and flip the lock on the inside of the door.
Fully clothed, I flop face-first into my bed, and my head swims as I drown in all my regrets.
