I’m a different Colin from a few weeks ago.I’m a Colin who’s in love with a Scottish girl who has green cat-eyes and whose insults I can’t get enough of.
I’m a guy who feels a pain in my chest when he notices how close the friendships are here, the way they all tell each other everything and know each other through and through.I’m sitting here among them all, playing my part, being jerkish and moody, until I’m lying in bed with Olive Garden, wanting to cry because it feels like something real.
And at home in Manhattan, there’s my kid sister sitting alone at her iPad, jumping if I play a wrong note but laughing it off, like she learned from me, and looking at me with eyes that tell me she knows.She’s figured out what’s going on with me andshe’s scared because I might not keep the promise I made to her.To come back.Not to leave her alone.Holy shit.
We say goodbye in a rush because Kirsten comes in to check that Cleo’s doing her schoolwork.On the way back to my room, I feel ripped apart inside.
I know the way back to the east wing now.I recognize the people I see on the way.They say hi, I say hi back, and I feel like shit because I can’t manage to hate everything anymore.I’ve arrived here, it’s true, but I can’t let myself feel at home, I just can’t, because I promised Cleo over and over again.
But that promise is at war with what Olive Garden is stirring up inside me, so much so that my hands are nervously looking for something to do.
When I get to the room, Sinclair isn’t there.He must be out riding, which means he won’t get back until just before dinner for a quick shower and to talk my ear off.So for now I’m alone.My heart is pounding—I can feel it in my throat as I pace uneasily around the room.
Fuck’s sake, don’t be so dramatic.Nothing’s happened, but something is happening inside me.I’ve faced up to something I’ve been denying for a while, and that was a mistake because now I have an unsolvable problem.All I can think of is Cleo sitting alone at her desk at home and, then later on, having dinner with Mom and Dad.If Mom can even fit it in—on days she’s filming, she usually eats at the studio, and Dad often works late in the office, where he can shut himself away and forget that he has a family: my thirteen-year-old sister, who no longer has anybody to teach her, as subtly as possible, that it’s notherfault she’s rightat the bottom of her parents’ list of priorities.Apparently, I’m now just as bad as them, because I’m prioritizing my own life over hers too now.
I clench my fists and stand by the window.God, this is impossible.I can’t stay here and act like I’m different from my parents if I leave Cleo in the lurch.I swore to be there for her so that she wouldn’t be as fucked up by our family as I am.And now I’m here, and I’m part of the problem.
When I can’t bear it any longer, I turn away and go over to the bed.Slowly, with as much control as I can manage, but it’s hard to breathe.The lighter’s well hidden between my insulin supplies, pumps, and spare syringes, which I keep in a box under my bed.I’m pretty sure Sinclair wouldn’t stick his nose into my stuff, but even if he did, he wouldn’t look in here.
My fingers are shaking as I dig through the packets until I find the cool metal.I slam the box back under the bed and push up my sleeve because I’m not in the mood to find anywhere better.I need to move fast.
I notice again that it’s good to take a break from time to time, because now that I’ve been strict with myself and gone without my lighter for a while, it’s an unexpected relief when the flame meets my skin.I flinch after just a split second, because I’ve grown unaccustomed to it, but it’s already helping to shift my mind from my crappy emotional pain to the physical.
Again now.Longer this time.
Don’t be a fucking weakling, Fantino.This is what you deserve, so hang in there.
And then it happens, like it always does: The pressure eases,the relief floods in to take its place, my heartbeat settles down, everything’s good—for this moment at least, until it’s followed by the shame and self-hatred.
Fucking wuss.This is so lame.Why not go boxing like Kit showed you?Why do you keep doing this?Why haven’t you learned from what happened in New York?
Clearly I haven’t, and it bugs me.I flick the lighter on again, shut my eyes, and dig my teeth into my bottom lip.Not long...
Five.
Four.
Three.
T—
There’s a knock, my eyes fly open, and at this exact moment, the door opens wide.
23
Colin
She saw, I know it, and I can’t move as Olive stands there, frozen in the doorway.Her eyes are on me.On the lighter in my hand.The flame dies.
The whole thing happens in a fraction of a second, but it feels like an eternity.And then it all goes very fast.
Her face turns white, then red, and she hurls herself at me.
“Put that out!Put that out!Are you insane?You can’t, not in here!You—you can’t light fires in here!”
I immediately hide the lighter in my sleeve, but there’s no point.My heart’s racing again.I jump up.
She saw.
