Page 66

Love is messy. Love is complicated. But, even at its most painful, it’s beautiful.

If it’s true.

The first thing Rachel does when we walk into the house is pour herself a full glass of wine. This is stupid. Why am I even trying?

“This isn’t going to work,” I say, throwing my hands in the air in defeat. “How do you expect me to talk to you if you’re going to continue to drink?”

“Fine.” Rachel throws the wineglass to the floor. The glass shatters into tiny shards. And the wine rains red upon the yellow cabinets. “I won’t drink.”

Are you fricken kidding me?

“Rachel!” I holler, unable to remain calm. She’s out of control. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

The door clicks shut.

“She’s what’s wrong with me.” She points at Emma, who is a statue in the entry. My hands curl into fists without thought. I restrain them by my sides and breathe through my nose to keep my temper in check. I can feel the flame rising in my chest. I have never and will never lay a hand upon a female, but in this moment, I’m a second away from helping her destroy the kitchen.

“This has nothing to do with Emma, so don’t even start.” I grind each word out through clenched teeth.

“Why do you keep calling her that?” She sounds like a petulant child. “Her name is Emily. And she’s going to take you away too, just like him.”

Here come the incoherent ramblings.

“You’re not making any sense. I’m not staying here to listen to this.” Fed up, I head toward the door. Emma slips up the stairs so quietly, I almost don’t see her.

More glass explodes in the kitchen, turning me around.

“What the fuck, Rachel?! Don’t throw a fit every time you don’t get your way.”

“Don’t leave,” she cries, crunching the glass beneath her feet as she takes a step toward me.

The anger fizzles away, doused by her childish whimpering. I can’t have her cutting herself up because I’m impatient.

“Don’t move,” I demand. “You’re stepping on glass.”

I do my best to step around the broken pieces and pick up Rachel. She sobs into my chest as I cradle her in my arms. Her body’s quivering, whether from crying or the drugs, I can’t tell.

“Will you stay?” Her words are barely coherent. I don’t give her an answer because if I were forced to give one right now it would be: fuck no.

It took way too long to get her to calm down and release her arms from around my neck. When I close Rachel’s door, I can hear Emma downstairs talking on the phone. “My mother and Jonathan got into another fight, so I had to drive her home. She was overly dramatic as usual, so I had to listen to her go off for a while. Sorry I didn’t get to see you after the game.”

I close my eyes, recognizing the excuses. Except mine sounded more like, “I need to help my dad organize the garage.”

I duck into the bathroom to give her time to talk to Evan without interruption. When I come back downstairs, I hear the end of it: “It’s been a stupid night, and I’m exhausted. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Her voice breaks like she’s trying not to cry.

I try to be as casual as possible as I walk down the stairs, like I didn’t just hear her heart break. She gave every excuse for why tonight was stupid except the real reason.

Emma’s picking up the larger pieces of glass and setting them in a paper bag.

“Let me help you,” I say, surprising her. I see the hurt on her face before she’s able to tuck it away.

After picking up the mess and wiping down the wine murder scene, the conversation takes its predictable turn. Emma explains away Rachel’s tirades, convinced she did something to deserve it.

Nothing. She did absolutely nothing wrong. And neither did I. Again. We can’t make Rachel behave the way we want her to. Years of living with my own erratic parent at least taught me that.

And once again, the question is presented: Will I leave? And man, do I want to. I want to leave this house and the woman upstairs—never to return.

Except when I look at the defeated and weary girl in front of me, I don’t know how I’m supposed to do that.