That’s really cute, Bonnie.
Are you angry with me about something?
No.
Oh, you are mad, aren’t you?
Did you know someone messed with my lock while I was gone?
Was it you?
Where exactly do you think I’ve been?
I’ll always take care of you. You know that.
I don’t need you to take care of me anymore.
I have Gemma.
Gemma?
Don’t make me laugh.
I’m serious.
Tell me something, rockstar. Does she know about us?
Does she know you’re thinking about me when you kiss her?
Oh wait.
You haven’t kissed her yet, have you?
How the hell do you know that?
Because I told you.
You’re already mine.
I’m not.
Of course, I’m not.
Am I?
An overflowing trash can in the corner of my kitchen distracts me from answering her text. Shit. Darcy will be here any moment.
I slam my phone down on the counter and grab a trash bag.
As I pick up the wrappers and leftover takeout cups around the place, I try to force myself to think about the song I was working on in the SUV on the way over here. There’s a steady beat at the core of it that reminds me of a dark place, one I don’t visit often enough, an event that pushed me over the final edge and into an oblivion that forced my fingers and knees and toes to bleed when I tried crawling out.
“—yell at her like that, Bonnie—”
“Why not? What does it matter? She’ll be dead soon, right?”
Beep.
Beep.
