“We could host it at Speedy’s Pizza. Next Saturday’s closing day,” Will adds. “We could throw a party and give out free drinks. I’ll bartend.”
Right now, I couldn’t be happier that he’s studying mixology.
I clap my hands, buzzing with excitement. “Perfect! Maggie and I will film everything and upload it to YouTube. Then we can pretend Sam’s dad discovered him there. He’d never know we set it up. I’ll call Maggie later—”
“I’ll tell her about it,” Sam cuts in. “I’m giving her a ride after class anyway. I’ll explain everything about our plan.”
Right—her car’s still at the mechanic’s.
I nod. “Okay.”
“How’d you manage to get Maggie to accept a ride from you?” Will asks.
Sam twirls one of his rings. “Charm.”
“He offered to carry her duffel bag, and she could ride on his motorcycle alone,” I reveal, amused.
Will bursts out laughing and Steven pulls me back onto his lap. I hold my fist out. “So... do we have a plan?”
The three of them grin, extend their fists, and we bump them together, sealing the deal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Vincent Cooper
PAST (2017)
––––––––
"My guitar is not a thing. It is an
extension of myself. It is who I am."
Joan Jett
I thought everything was going well. I thought I was healing—that I could handle it. But I wasn’t.
I don’t know why I did it. I just wanted to try shaving, even though I barely have any facial hair. Maybe it was the memory—Igor shaving in front of me when I was little. Everything about that man scares me to death.
After throwing in the trash years of therapy, the razor slipped from my hand and clattered on the tile.
Now I’m slumped against the glass shower wall in my bathroom, arms wrapped around my torso. My pajama shirt clings, soaked with blood and the fresh cuts burn against the fabric.
I don’t know why I did it. It just proves I can never really get back on my feet.
My parents aren’t home. The progress I’d made in therapy and the effect of the medication, had convinced them to trust me more. To give me space.
But I stopped taking the meds, and everything fell apart again. They don’t know that. At least, I hope they don’t. I couldn’t bear their faces if they did—the soft looks, the same words: It’s okay, honey-bee. We’ll try again.
They’d tell me not to give up. That I have to keep fighting. But I’m so tired. I can’t fight this sadness anymore. I can’t fight what lives in my head.
I’ll never be okay. I’ll never be independent. I’ll always need pills, therapy, someone else to hold me up. My parents will realize it eventually, and they’ll leave. Steven will leave. Even her—especially her.
I’m not good for her. If I don’t heal, I’ll drag her down with me. And I can’t do that. I’m not strong enough.
The cuts sting, but they’re nothing compared to what I feel inside. I just want silence. Peace.
“Cooper?”
