He’s dead. The wrong twin died.
“You’re the one who lost Holden. You’re the one who wasn’t paying attention. You’re the one who let this happen. You’re the reason he drove home drunk. You, Halsey. You are the reason.”
I leap toward the bathroom and barely make it to the tile before I’m throwing up all over the bathroom floor, wave afterwave of nausea hitting me, creating a sheen of sweat all over my body.
Four words.
Four powerful, excruciating words.
The wrong twin died.
I feel every aspect of the life I’ve tried to build after losing Holden slip from my grasp, that dark cloud swallowing them up and leaving me in a painful state of agony where I don’t belong on this earth.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe the wrong twin did die.Isn’t that what I’ve thought all along? I am the cause? He should be alive?
Not me.
IfHolden was alive, he would have been stronger.
IfHolden was alive, he would have mourned but carried on my spirit.
IfHolden was alive, he wouldn’t have hidden in a world of denial.
IfHolden was alive, he would have kept the family together.
And he wouldn’t have let Dad die.
He would have been there for him.
He would have made sure everyone in our life was good. He would have called. He would have visited.
He wouldn’t have holed up in a summer cabin, pretending nothing was wrong and escaping into books.
And there’s the difference.
He would have lived.
He wouldn’t have let any of this happen.
Unlike me . . .
So yeah, she’s probably right. The wrong twin did die.
“Dude,what the fuck are you doing?” Eli says as he comes up to where I’m sitting at the bar, a glass of whiskey in my hand, sweat beading down my forehead, as I try to get so obliterated that I black out and forget everything.
“What does it look like?” I ask, hearing my words slur ever so slightly. Good. I’m right where I want to be.
“Fuck, Halsey.” He peels the cup out of my hand and places it on the other side of the bar. He then addresses the bartender and says, “Close his tab. Now. Do not open another.”
“Don’t listen to him,” I say, but unfortunately, the bartender does. “What the fuck, man?”
“You have a goddamn game tomorrow. You shouldn’t be drinking.”
“Fuck off,” I say, but then I’m dragged off my stool by the shoulder. “What the fuck?”
Eli doesn’t say anything. Instead, he pockets my card, signs the receipt for me, then pushes me toward the hotel elevators.
Irritated, I spin around and push him back.
