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Not so soon.
My knees feel weak, so I sit down on the toilet seat. My breathing is ragged, and no matter how much I try to inhale, it’s like the air isn’t reaching my lungs.
The image of Nixon and Yasmin, my friends, andPrescottall laughing and happy flashes in front of my eyes.
Thiscan’tbe happening!
How am I supposed to tell them? How am I supposed to tell my brother that we might be back to where we were two years ago?
No, I just can’t. If he were to find out, he’d be devastated.
He was broken after Mom died.
Completely and utterly broken.
If I tell him…
I shake my head, brushing away the tears that have spilled down my cheeks as I struggle to breathe in.
Calm down. Just calm down.
Pressing my hand over my mouth, I force myself to inhale through my nose. I repeat the motion over and over again until my lungs finally open, and I’m not gulping for air.
I can’t deal with this.
Not now.
Not yet.
Pushing to my feet, I enter my room and go straight for the closet. Bypassing the clothes, I look at the back of my closet until I find the half-empty bottle of tequila. Unscrewing the cap, I bring the bottle to my lips and take a pull.
Forget.
That’s what I need. To forget this has happened. To forget that my body is betraying me. To forget this new reality, I’m not ready to confront.
A reality I’ll have to face, but not just yet.
Not tonight.
Tequila burns as it slides down my throat, warming my belly. Grabbing my phone, I find a message from Prescott waiting for me.
Hotshot: How about I come to your place after practice tonight?
I stare at his message for a moment, my teeth grazing over my lower lip.
What will he think when he finds out? After everything that has happened to his brother…
My chest tightens, making it hard to breathe. Why does it hurt? It shouldn’t hurt so much. It’s just sex, for God’s sake. Just sex.
Keep telling yourself that.
Exiting the message, I sit down on the floor, pressing my back against the bed. I bring the bottle to my lips and take a sip, my gaze fixed on the mess that’s my closet. Prescott’s hoodie is safely stashed inside, a couple of basketball shorts peeking from one of the drawers where he left them a few weeks ago.
Then the bright pink of my gloves catches my attention, and an idea forms in my mind. I pull up a browser, quickly typing until I find the info I need before opening my inbox once again.
Me: What are you doing tonight?
Hitting send, I grab the bottle and take another sip. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or my resolve, but whatever it is, I’m finally calming down. Only one thing on my mind—erase this pain.
