I’m back in Noah’s truck.
Back and broken and emptier than I’ve ever been.
Instinctively, I dig my nails into the thick fabric protecting my upper thighs.
A deep ache takes root in my nailbeds, but it’s not the pain I crave.
The pain I fucking deserve.
The desire to self-harm rages through my bloodstream, surging with every beat of my heart. It’s a life force: a pulsating need.
“Hey.”
I startle, the single word uttered by my best friend pulling me out of my head and freeing me from the intrusive thoughts.
He’s too close.
He’s on the wrong side.
We’re stopped, I realize. We’re at the orchard, parked behind the storefront.
Noah hovers in the open frame on my side of the truck, his brows pulled low.
“Merce…”
He looms closer, lifting my hand off my thigh.
A tingly, burning sensation dances through each of my knuckles as he gingerly guides each of my fingers to straighten.
“You need sleep,” he says softly. “And we need to get in touch with your therapist. Maybe request an emergency session?”
I open my mouth to argue, but before I can push back, he goes on.
“I’m calling my therapist, too. We have to take care of ourselves right now. That way, when she’s ready—”
A shrewd laugh escapes me. “She’ll never be ready.”
She’s gone.
I pushed her away. I went too far.
I know it in the deepest depths of my being. The truth was right there, plain on her face. It was in the way she looked at me. In the way she promised to never forgive. That vow burrowed into the marrow of all two hundred and six bones in my body and irrevocably changed everything.
“She’s never coming back.” I lob the bitter words at Noah. I want him to hurt, too.
He doesn’t understand the reality of the situation. Or maybe he can’t accept it. He’s playing into a hopeful delusion—one that only ends in prolonged pain for the both of us.
I destroyed everything, and yet he brought me back to his home. Here he stands, holding my hand tenderly, encouraging me to call my counselor and rest.
Doesn’t he get it?
“She’s not coming back,” I repeat, my voice cracking on his name.
I want him to hate me. To tell me that I ruined his fresh shot at happiness. That just like the night of the accident, when I was the one who let the car run out of gas so we were late getting home, that this is all my fault.
They would all legitimately and unequivocally be better off without me.
“Let’s get you inside,” he says calmly.
