“What’s it like? Remind me,” he says as we wait for the elevator.
“Well,” I drag the word out not entirely by choice, “it’s pretty damn chill. My arms and legs are heavy, and the world spins when I move my head fast, but it’s quiet in my mind for the first time in a really long time, especially if I ignore the sloshing sound in my ears.”
“Sounds nice,” he replies without a hint of regret.
“It is now. Tomorrow will probably be a different story.”
I undress, kicking my shoes off and dropping my clothes on the floor where I stand. I struggle with the clasps of one of the necklaces but manage to pry it loose eventually. I open my top drawer to put the chains and Caroline’s cuff away. As I do it, a rusted old tin catches my eye and holds a blade to my throat. It’s rectangular, the tin, and not all that deep. I think my mom used to keep her emergency sewing kit in it when she was a kid. The image on the lid is reminiscent of an English garden, a bright-blue sky in the background, with rambling old roses in the foreground. Vintage pinks and olive greens are still visible on the parts of the lid that haven’t been corroded.
It should be ordinary. An innocent object without power or pain.
It isn’t.
It’s so far from it that I drop the cuff and chains, physically recoiling, as I slam the drawer shut.
I get into bed naked, shaken, and dizzy.
The world spins when my head hits the pillow.
I turn on my side, rest my phone on the pillow near my face, and scroll through my messages like I always do, looking for Havi’s name.
I click on Connor’s instead because it comes up first. I type a message and deliberate for the longest time before sending it. I feel sick from the alcohol, and I feel sick from disloyalty to Havi of all people.
I will myself not to think about it. Not to think about anything. Not to think a single goddamn thing.
Not now.
Not tonight.
I can’t handle it tonight.
I can’t.
Instead, I read the words I’ve typed several times. Even now, drunk as I am, I know full well I’ll regret them in the morning.
I hit send all the same.
I’m glad you lived or whatever.
27
Lennon
Connorhaswoken,yetagain, chock full of the joys of life. His cheeks are flushed and there’s something about him that reminds me of the way girls look when they’ve had their hair professionally blow-dried. It’s odd. He’s still wearing his pajamas, though, so I don’t think he’s showered—never mind had his hair blown out.
“How was the sun?” I mumble through reams of hangover and regret.
“Dunno,” he says, affecting a casual tone that’s so unlike him it hits my auditory system and skips like a stone over a flat body of water. “I gave it a miss so I could sleep in.”
As he says it, the corner of his mouth tics. It’s slight, but accompanied by the tone of his voice and the fact that he isn’t looking me in the eye, it makes me think he’s lying.
Or if he isn’t lying, he isn’t telling the whole truth either.
My mind races to fill in the blanks.
Where it lands is decidedly murky. Where it lands is a place where Connor stands in my room and says, “I wouldn’t say big, but it is well-rounded.”
He says it over and over.
