But I don’t.
I step out into the night like an idiot who still thinks bridges can be rebuilt after they’ve been burned to ash.
“He’s probably fine,” I say, too casually, too fucking late.
Rhodes doesn’t look at me.Just keeps staring out like the skyline might give him better answers than I ever did.
“Define fine, asshole.”His voice is hoarse, jagged.Like it’s been worn down from screaming into voids that never listened.“Are we talking some chick is pumping drugs in his system while spending his money and trying to get the paparazzi to photograph them?Or buried in a ditch after she stole his Ferrari?”
I let the words hang.I deserve that.All of it.
I swallow, glancing down at my hands like they might have something better to say.
“First of all,” I mutter, “the chick didn’t pump drugs.I already had them.That was ...me.I brought the party favors.”
His laugh is bitter and silent.
“Second of all ...yeah.I handed her my credit card because she said she wanted a fucking soda.She promised to come back.”
I shake my head slowly, disgust curling low in my gut.“I watched her walk away believing she’d come back with the soda and fucking condoms.”I scoff.“That was stupid, I totally get it now.”
“And the chick who stole the Ferrari?”
“I thought she was the valet,” I whisper.
My mouth twists wryly.
The terrace wraps around the house like a smug, manicured stage—glass railings, potted plants that probably cost more than my first rehab stint, sleek furniture arranged like no one’s ever sat in it.Below, the glittering grid of San Francisco stretches wide, unapologetic.
Downtown’s high-rises glint beneath the moonlight, and the Bay Bridge hums in the distance.A cold breeze rolls up from the water, brushing against my arms like a scolding I can’t escape.
“In my defense, I thought she was the valet,” I say again, louder this time, because now I hear how far gone I was.How detached from reality, from dignity, and from myself.
Silence stretches between us.Rhodes smokes like it’s keeping him from screaming.
I force myself to meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and my voice cracks open.
He blinks but doesn’t speak.
“I’m fucking sorry, Rhodes.For every night you had to bail me out.For every time you came to find me in some shitty hotel, or some girl’s apartment, or a hospital bed with vomit down my shirt and a look in my eyes that said I didn’t care if I made it out.”
He exhales through his nose.Still silent.
“I’m sorry for bleeding you dry,” I keep going, even though it feels like my ribs are being split open.“For using you up.For needing you until you had nothing left.You showed up for me more times than I ever deserved.And all I ever did was spit in your face and tell you I didn’t need you.”
I pause, jaw clenched, breathing like I just ran a fucking marathon.But I haven’t even started.
“I don’t blame you for walking away.You should’ve walked away sooner.I would’ve.I did, from everyone else.”
I close my eyes for a beat.
“I didn’t want to be saved back then.I just wanted to drown quietly.And I dragged you under with me every time.”
He looks away.
My voice drops.“You didn’t leave because you didn’t love me.You left because I made it impossible to love me.And you were right.”
