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Dereck
I’m fuming by the time my last class of the day ends, fuming still, because I haven’t felt even a smidge better since our run in with Rowan this morning.
I’m fucking irate, actually. Furious that she could do this to me, enraged that not only was she okay with fucking me, but also one of my best friends.
I’m an angry person. More than one of my friends will tell you that, but I’ve never felt quite this emotion that is pulsating through me, poisoning the blood in my veins. It’s a mixture of rage and something else, something I can’t quite pinpoint. Part of me, some hidden part I won’t let out, wants to tell me that it’s something disgusting, like hurt, but that can’t be it.
No woman has ever hurt me before. Not even this one.
I kick off my shoes and bag and go straight to our kitchen for the nearly full bottle of whiskey, unscrewing the top and taking a long drink. Beer wouldn’t cut it, not tonight. Somewhere upstairs, some hippy dippy musical shit is playing, so I know Bryce is home, but I don’t give a fuck. I haven’t decided what to do with him yet.
Matt, however, isn’t here.
But I know where he is.
I take a seat on the couch with a heavy thud, taking another swig of whiskey. It burns so good going down, and all at once I can feel the numbing sensation rush through my veins. I take my cell phone out of my back pocket and check it. There’s nothing yet, but there will be.
Soon.
Upstairs, Bryce’s music grows louder. He must have heard me stomping around down here. I reach for the remote and flick on our TV, heading straight to YouTube for a playlist that isn’t so dumb. Classic rock. Led Zeppelin blows through the speakers, and I turn it up until it drowns out Bryce’s music upstairs.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and rest my head against the back of the couch, wishing this rage in my chest would simmer down. I’ve never had this kind of reaction before, not to anything, and especially not to some girl. Why do I feel like this? Why do I feel so betrayed by someone I used to actually hate?
I don’t know. But it’s not a pleasant sensation. I’m over it.
I’m about seven shots of whiskey in when my cell phone finally buzzes in my hand. I look down at the screen with bleary eyes. It’s Carly. I set the bottle down and swipe my finger across the screen to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Dereck?” She’s been crying, I can tell, and for a mere second I feel badly for her.
But not enough to change my mind.
“Hey, baby,” I say sweetly. I’m sure she can hear the drunken slur in my voice, but if she does, she doesn’t let on. “What’s wrong? You sound upset.”
“Matt was just here,” she sniffles into the phone.
“Why in the hell was Matthew there?” I’m trying to sound angry, but I don’t know how well I’m doing. Still, I don’t think Carly notices.
“He came to tell me something … something about you.”
“About me?”
“And about Ro—Rowan!” She’s wailing now, her high-pitched voice ringing in my ears with such devastation I wince and pull the phone away from my face.
“Rowan, your roommate Rowan?” I ask innocently. “What did he say?”
“He said you two had sex!”
Carly is sobbing now, rattling on and on with words she can’t quite form. I listen to her patiently until I can get a word in edgewise, then sigh deeply. “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “Honestly, I’m so sorry. I—I didn’t want you to find out.”
“Well, I did, Dereck, you fucking asshole,” Carly screams, and I pull the phone away again so my eardrums don’t shatter.
“Is Rowan there?” I ask. “Have you confronted her about this, or am I the only one in any trouble?”
“You can bet your sweet ass I’ll deal with Rowan,” Carly snaps, and I know she’s still crying. “I fucking hate you both, Dereck Denny, and I never want to see your face again.”
The line goes dead, silence settling over the living room. With a grim smirk, I toss my phone aside, catching a glimpse of a figure at the bottom of the stairs. It’s Bryce, and I can tell with one look at him that he’s heard the entire conversation.
“I sure hope you two know what you’re doing,” he says softly. “Because if either of you cared about her as much as you pretend to, you wouldn’t do this.”
“Piss off, man.” I stumble to my feet and walk past him, thrusting the bottle into his hands as I pass him going up the stairs. “She fucking deserves this. You should be angry, too.”
“I’m not angry,” the words are so quiet I almost don’t catch them, but something in his tone makes me pause before I’m out of earshot.
“What?”
“I’m not angry,” Bryce says again. “I’m hurt. And I guess I know that an eye for an eye …” he trails off, getting that stupid, profound look in his eyes that has always annoyed me so much. I shake my head, sneering, but as I tromp up the stairs to my bedroom, the rest of the words play in my mind, insulting me.
… makes the whole world blind.
