He squeezes his eyes shut on an inhale, rubbing his mammoth sized hand against his temples.
“What thefuckcould it possibly be then?” His growl is violent, and panic flares in my chest because no matter which direction I look I can’t see a way out of this. “You know what—” he holds a hand up to stop me from responding, “actually, just save it. You and my sister are just the fucking same.” Disgust laces his tone and I feel my fists clench responsively at the way he’s talking about Sloane.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I grit out, taking a few intimidating steps toward him. Pain courses through my jaw with how hard I’m clenching it, the anger at not just him but at my dad, at myself, threatening to erupt quicker than I can control it. At this point, I can’t tell if I want to smooth things over with Grant or bash his face in for the comment.
“Ha!” He mocks me and the blood rises in my ears, seething anger spilling out in the glare I know is plastered to my face. “C’mon Spellman, go for it.” He holds his hands out like an invitation jutting out his jaw, begging me to hit him.
But I don’t want to hit him. Never did. No—I want to hit my dad, want to hit all of the ways I’ve completely fucked up my life by letting myself fall on his payroll, want to beat the knowledge out of myself that keeps me aware that all of the liesI tell, all the people I hurt, keep Carmen in school, keep things afloat for my mom. Any shred of rapport, of dignity that I’d gained with Grant over the past few months evaporates, all of it meaningless now. I can see it in the disappointed crease of his brow.
“Jesus—you and Sloane. It’s all id with you guys, all impulse, all the time. Do you ever stop and think?” he asks, exasperated like he’s at the end of a marathon. Like this is the cherry on top.
Tears brim the corner of my eyes because he’s right. Sloane and I are like lightning striking in the same place twice. Electric, magical,dangerous. If we weren’t, I would’ve put an end to us already. That danger, the magic—it’s why I’m letting myself believe Ian. Because if he can’t fix this, I’ll have to tell her everything. And then who the fuck knows if she’ll stay.
“So what’s the story Andy? What excuse could you possibly have for talking to Ian after everything he’s done?” Grant crosses his arms. His face is so much like Sloane’s now, trying to read me, trying to edge under the surface and see what’s really going on.
I consider letting him, telling him everything if only to have one person who sees me for who I am, bad or not because the weight of all of these masks I’m wearing is suffocating. But I know if I have to choose one person, one person in this entire world to protect, it’s not him. It’s not Ian or myself. Hell—it’s not even Sloane and that feels like a betrayal in and of itself, like someone is physically stabbing my vital organs.
But there’s one person in this world more important than her, and it’s Carmen. My baby sister deserves to not endure all this pain, to not have to sacrifice her morality every day just to make ends meet, to not see Mom crumble in front of her again and again. I’m doing this for Carm and remembering that sparks something in me. The resilience that burns anewreminds me just how good I can pretend, just how well I can put on show. But it’s bitter poison, realizing what will get Grant to leave this alone, to not dig into what I’ve been doing. It could ruin things just as much as Sloane knowing the truth, but it’s a risk I’ll have to take.
The voice that comes out isn’t my own but one I’ve grown eerily familiar with. “You need to chill, Grant. Your sister and I are just hooking up. It’s not like we’re dating.”
It’s like a flash, the feeling of Grant’s knuckles sinking into my abdomen before I gasp in air, the breath completely struck from my lungs. I feel the cement against my palms now bracing the concrete trying to find air.
“Fuck,” I hiss and Grant spits on the sidewalk beside me, and if he kicked me next it wouldn’t be enough. It’s the culmination of years of the worst karma.Thisis what I deserve.
“You’re trash, Spellman. Stay the fuck away from my sister.” He wipes his palms, and I expect his face to look angry or murderous, but instead I find him looking at me with so much pity, so much sadness, and that’s somehow worse.
37
Sloane
March
My denim clad leg sinks into a pile of gray sludge as I step off the curb leading toward the hospital. I don’t have the energy to even let out a sigh as the cold wet sleet soaks through the hem of my pants. And still my head throbs, like it has every morning, every afternoon, for the past few days.
Jean and I get trashed; we avoid our issues; we soothe whatever we refuse to talk about with the slow and steady burn of whiskey for me and gin and soda for him. We’ve gotten good at not talking about anything, letting our bodies dance, drink, laugh through the pain—all of it’s hollow, though. Jean’s gaze was empty when I left this morning, and I know it’s probably what he sees in mine. I wish I could say it was just alcohol that we’ve been abusing, but that’d be a lie. Not a crucial one. No one really cares what we do, I’ve found. My phone’s been eerily quiet, the rest of my tiny little world too busy for me. The big world, though—it’s still there, waiting for me every night, soworried about what I wear or who I’m with even though it’s always Jean.
I feel myself slipping back into my old ways. I’ve even been posing when I see a camera flash, trying to give them what they're looking for because why not? What reputation do I really have to uphold? Elliot reminded me of that, that this facade of an unserious, notorious, slutty party girl isn’t really a facade at all. We are what we are. Elliot tried to mold me into something better but that was a complete and utter failure. I mean, I gotpregnant. Forget that it was his fault—everyone always does—but I had to carry the sin of it. Would’ve been a physical reminder of a mistake he made. The mistake I made.
What is my fault, actually, was thinking I could be anything but who I’ve always been. It seems Andy’s realized that. One away game andpoof, the mirage fell. Call after call has gone unreturned and when I’ve seen him it’s the same distance I’ve grown accustomed to, the one that’s plagued me with everyone in my life for as long as I can remember. I start to become too much, start to feel too much, and they shrink away.
I feel my phone buzz in my pocket and see Clementine’s name flash on the screen. I ignore it because I know she’ll know. She’ll hear it in my voice just like Grant could, that I’m back in my fortress. ‘Not doing well.’
I wonder if she heard about Elliot being here.
I know she keeps tabs on me, that she worries. The idea of that makes me want to cry because I wish she didn’t. Wish she could see that I don’t deserve it.
I pull the heavy metallic handle leading toward the cancer treatment center, guilt already settling in my stomach from the lack of communication I’ve had with my mom over the past week and a half. For the thousandth time I wonder what thefuckis wrong with me.
My mom is dying, literally dwindling away in front of myvery eyes and instead of spending as much time with her as humanly possible I’ve been so absorbed in my own shit. Anyone else, I tell myself, would take that thought as some kind of wake up call, a moment that snaps them into being present, into paying attention to the people who actually matter. But me? All I feel is that familiar itch under my skin, the need to escape, run away from everything and everyone if only to escape the blame I know I deserve. Avoid the disappointment in their faces when they realize that I’m exactly who they thought I was.
“Constance Tucker,” I say to the front desk woman, her hair pulled so tightly back that my own temples begin to throb, although that could just be the hangover. I watch as she types her eyes, carefully scanning the screen, a crease forming in between her brows.
“It appears she hasn’t come in yet. Actually, do you know how late she’s going to be? We may need to bump her to the next session.” I blink, taking more than a second to process that Mom isn’t here.
“She must have the times mixed up, let me just call her really quick.” The woman nods and I hitMomin my recent call log, shakily holding the phone up to my ear.
It isn’t that uncommon. I got the late gene from mom, after all. She’s almost always ten to fifteen minutes late…but thirty? Her appointments are always on Wednesday at one pm, so the idea that she got the times mixed up seems unlikely. The phone takes a second before sending me directly to voicemail, and now I feel it.
