by Ava Harrison
I think that’s why I feel so connected to Lindsey. She gets it. She gets me. She knows what it’s like to be swept under the rug because everyone is too busy living their own damn lives to see you.
“Hey.” I look over to see Grant, Bridget, and my niece Isabella looking out the window in the corner of the room. Bridget walks over to me, holding Isabella’s hand. “Do you remember your uncle?”
“No,” her soft voice replies.
“That’s not a surprise,” Spencer says under his breath. I hear him, but I don’t turn toward him, I have no intention of giving him the satisfaction of knowing I’m bothered.
My dad is sitting in the burgundy and gold ornate wing chair next to my mom’s. He looks paler than I remember, not as strong or scary as the big powerful man I grew up fearing and being in awe of at the same time. “Dad.” I nod in his direction. When he doesn’t get up, just looks at me with narrowed eyes, I wonder why I’m even here. No one wants me here, that’s obvious, and I’m not sure why I should stay.
Thankfully, I’m saved by the bell as a member of my parents’ domestic staff informs us that dinner is served. God, how pretentious is this? Why can’t they just hang in the kitchen while dinner is prepared, like a normal family?
Nope, not The Lancasters. I guess if you employ a staff of five to make sure your immense household runs smoothly, a figurative bell is still rung for dinner . . .
Together we all head to the formal dining room.
The meal is tedious.
No one speaks to me. No one asks me what I’m doing. All they do is talk about the expansion of The Lancaster and The L.
I stare at the grandfather clock for one whole hour, listening to the hand moving painfully slow.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Then it happens. Someone finally acknowledges the big elephant in the room, and the reason I’m here. And that someone is my father.
“So tell us, what are you planning on doing once your time is over at Polaris?” my father asks.
“I haven’t really thought about that yet—”
“Don’t you think you should? Don’t you think you should have a game plan?” Spencer cuts in.
“Why don’t I just make this easier on all of us? Why don’t you tell me what I can do to fit into your damn bubble?” I snap, fed up with this evening. At my outburst, Grant stands and turns to Bridget and inclines his head down. Silently saying they are leaving. He scoops Isabella into his arms and the three exit the room. As soon as they are gone, my father crosses his arms in front of his chest as his mouth opens.
“Don’t speak to your brother like that,” he chimes in. “He’s only asking what we are all wondering. Do you have a game plan? Do you have any idea how you’re going to support yourself?”
“Support myself?” I ask. My trust will support me . . . won’t it?
Spencer must notice my conclusion because he speaks instead of my father, his arms hitting the table to lean in. Shit. He means business. This can’t possibly be good.
“There is a stipulation in the trust that if you are deemed incompetent . . .” Spencer’s words trail off with the desired attention, letting me come to the life-changing conclusion by myself.
My heart thumps hard in my chest as my stomach drops. “I get nothing?” I don’t understand what is going on. How did this happen? How did I not know?
“If—”
“Let me get this straight.” I stand pushing away from the table and looking directly at my father. “If Prince-Mother-Fucker-Spencer deems me unfit, I get nothing.”
My mother gasps at my outburst before biting her lip and motioning for me to sit back in the chair. “Pierce, please,” my mother says.
“No, I won’t sit. Is this shit real, Dad?”
“We’re only doing what we think is best,” he responds.
“Are you for real? Are you fucking for real right now?”
“Do not speak in front of your mother that way.”
“So this is why I was asked here. This is why you are all here, like a goddamn intervention. ‘Shape up or ship out.’” I air quote. “Do what you want me to do or lose everything. Good to fucking know.” I jerk my head in Spencer’s direction. “Wow”—my hands tighten into fists as I stare him down—“you really do have delusions of grandeur.” I turn my back to them, my mom speaking behind me begging me to stay.
But I’m already gone.
At first, I’m too angry to drive. I’m all over the damn place in my mind. Thank fuck I get back to the city safely because I barely remember the ride.
When I pull into the city, I wonder where I should go.
Lindsey.
I pick up the phone and call her: voicemail.
Fuck.
She must be still out to dinner with Amelia.
Looking down at the clock I see it’s already ten. Where the hell has the night gone? Too much anger is inside me to go home. Too many emotions swirling in my lungs, choking me, has me picking up the phone and calling Linc.
“Where you at?”
“Pre-game. My place.”
“I’ll be there.”
Ten minutes later, I’m riding the elevator up to Linc’s apartment. When I walk into his place, he pulls me into a hug, slapping my back. “Bro, where you been? It’s been too damn long.”
“Busy with volunteering.” I shrug.
“You’re still doing that shit? Tough break.”
A part of me wants to say it’s your damn fault I’m in this mess, but I was the driver. I should have known better. “You’re telling me.”
“Well, you’re here now. So let’s fucking party! Tequila, vodka . . . both?”
“Tequila.”
Next thing I know, extra chilled glasses are being passed around and all the guys are taking shots. I haven’t hung out with them for weeks, but it’s like old times. Like I haven’t missed a beat. However, with every drink a desire inside me intensifies, it’s like a dam is breaking, pouring out and spilling over every surface.
“Anyone got any blow?” With the fresh booze flooding my blood and all my inhibitions fading away, the words pop out of my mouth before I can take them back.
“Nah, not yet. About to hit up my guy though. You want in?”
Do I want in? “Hell, yeah.”
After sending a series of texts, Linc pats me on the back. “Time to head out. My guy is meeting me at Lit and he’s got an eight ball with your name on it.”
“Let’s go.”
Once at the club, Linc looks at his phone and smiles broadly. He tips back his drink and then stalks off to the corner of the room by the bathroom. He’s talking to someone, but in the dark space, I can’t make out who it is. All I see are his eyes reflecting against the dim light peeking out from the bathroom door as it flings open.
Dark. Sinister. That must be his guy.
I lift the glass up one more time and let the burn sting as it goes down.
I’m drunk.
I’m so drunk, the room is spinning and I can barely stand. Linc is back already and I’m too fucked up to realize that he’s already laid out the coke on the table. The line is spread long, in the wide open, for everyone to see and no one says a word. Got to love the security at Lit.
“You’re up first, man,” Linc says as he hands me a freshly rolled up hundred-dollar bill. Benjamin Franklin peeks up where it’s folded over. Go big or go home, I guess.
I take the bill and lean down. I’m a live wire of nervous energy the closer I get. One hand lifts to close the opposite nostril and on instinct, my eyes close. My movements halt and bile collects in my throat as a feeling of hate, of hating myself, floods my system.
I’m pathetic.
I’m weak.
Just do it. If you do it, you’ll feel strong.
Against the backdrop of my lids that are still closed, I see her reflection: Lindsey.
Her smile.
Her eyes.
Her lips part
. She looks at me.
With pride.
She looks at me like I’m her knight in shining armor.
As if the suns rises and sets when I’m around.
She looks at me like I’m everything.
As if I make her happy.
As if I can be so much more.
My eyes fling open. The white powder so close if I inhale I’ll be high. What am I doing? I can’t do this . . .
I hate myself for being so weak.
“You aren’t weak.” Her voice plays in my ear. I can hear it. Clear as day. “You haven’t done it yet. Walk away.”
In the same moment, I hear Spencer . . . “You have no plans. What are you doing with your life?”
I try to shake away the opposing voices in my ear: the angel and the demon.
The muscles in my back tighten.
The dark voice inside me is winning over.
I’m about to resume my position when the bill is snatched from my hand. “You snooze you lose, bro.”
A round of chuckles are had at my expense as Linc leans forward and takes the line intended for me. He leans up, a Cheshire grin on his face as he inhales deeply. “Shit,” he exhales as he pulls back holding one nostril and sucking in.
I stare at him half in contempt and half in appreciation for taking my choice off the table. I’m contemplating what to do next. Should I line up another one? Lose myself in the oblivion?
Looking up I turn to ask for the bag when I notice . . .
Seizing.
His body falls to the floor.
“Get up.” I roll his body, shaking it violently. His eyes won’t open. “Fucking wake up!”
“Shit, someone needs to call nine-one-one!”
A frenzy of people . . .
The music stopping . . .
The paramedics rushing in . . .
Then the cops.
He’s pronounced dead on the spot.
I’m numb.
I’m hurting.
I hate myself.
Questions are asked, so many questions:
Who bought the drugs? Linc bought the drugs.
Did anyone see the drug dealer? No. Well, not really. Just his eyes. Black eyes. Dark as the night. They haunt me.
But it’s not just his eyes that haunt me. It’s them. All of them. I can feel their eyes, all of them staring at me. Probably hating me as much as I hate myself. The line was for me. I should be dead.
It should have been me.
“Want to share a cab?” Trey asks, pulling me out of my sordid thoughts. Looking up, I notice that the club has finally emptied and it’s just us standing where the body of our friend used to be.
“Nah, I’m good.”
Trey’s expression stills and grows serious. His brows knit together. “You shouldn’t be alone.” His voice sounds tired.
“I won’t be alone.” Broke and hoarse, splintered pieces, fractured glass. That’s how I feel. As if I’m a picture frame that’s been beaten by a hammer, and all that’s left are shards.
He bows his head and then his shoulders lift before he turns. We begin to walk out together in disbelief, the reality of the situation finally falling on top of me. I can feel my hands shake. When I’m outside, the air hits my face bringing me out of my daze.
Trembling, I pull out my phone, praying she’ll answer this time.
“I need you.”
I fall when I see her. To the ground, knees hitting the wood floor beneath me. I’m tired, so fucking tired. My head tips down and a harrowing feeling spreads across my chest. And when she kneels beside me, I lose it. Everything I was holding back pours out of me in silent screams and tear-stained cheeks. The feeling of her hand on my back tells me she’s got me, and I welcome it, to know someone finally does. If she hurts in this position, she doesn’t say so. Instead, she stays on the ground with me for what seems like an endless amount of time as I cry. I can’t remember the last time I’ve cried.
Years . . .
When I can finally breathe again, she stands and reaches her hand down to help me up. A small movement, but monumental. This girl, Lindsey Walker, is lifting me up and it means everything.
When we are in her room, she points to the bed and I get in, she gets in beside me.
“Tell me what happened?”
“Linc,” I whisper. “My friend. He died.”
She pulls me into her embrace again. “I’m so sorry.”
“It should have been me,” I confess.
She moves away and sits up, looking down at me. “I don’t understand.”
I know what I’m about to tell her might make her angry. Fuck, she might leave me, but she deserves to know the kind of man she is with.
“I had a bad night,” I try to explain. But it doesn’t matter the rationale, I know I was weak. I know I was wrong. “I made a mistake.” My voice cracks and I hate that I have to do this.
She reaches out and takes my hand, her soft fingers trailing on my skin. “Talk to me. Tell me what happened.”
Inhale.
Exhale.
“I saw my family. It was bad. In a moment of weakness, I got drunk, made bad decisions, and well . . . I almost got fucked-up.” I don’t need to clarify. Lindsey was in the scene for years. She knows what I mean when I say, “got fucked-up.”
Her eyes widen as her face noticeably pales. When I don’t continue, she squeezes my hand, telling me without words that no matter what, she’s here for me. She’s not going anywhere.
The gesture is enough for me to find the words that have gotten lodged in my throat.
“The line . . .” I pause and swallow. “The line was for me. I was supposed to take the first line.” My heart thumps erratically in my chest over my confession as I wait for her to respond, as I wait for her to finally see me for the fuckup I am and tell me she’s done.
The room is quiet. The only sound comes from our breathing. My declaration hangs in the air, suffocating me with the silence that follows.
“Why didn’t you?” she finally whispers.
“Because of you. I didn’t because of you. I stopped . . . for you.”
“You can’t stop for me. You need to stop for you.”
“I have.” I let my head fall forward into my hands. She moves in and hugs me, softly coos in my ear. Rubbing circles on my back.
“That should have been me.”
“I know it.”
She knows it.
I know it.
Everyone knows it.
A man is dead because of me.
And I hate myself.
The next morning comes, an awkward feeling takes root in my psyche. I lost my shit yesterday with Lindsey.
She saw me cry.
Fuck she saw me weep like a baby.
She held me. Rocked me.
Now in the early light of day, I still feel numb. I’ve always tried so hard to keep walls up. To not let anyone in for fear of the devastation they could cause, but this girl has officially eradicated them all. Blew them the fuck up. Broke every damn resistance I had.
Now what do I do?
Let her in, a voice nags in my head.
And if she sees what’s really inside you? How broken you are.
Let her in.
I push the thought away with a loud grown. It’s unwelcome right now.
The brisk morning air sends a chill down my spine. Three days have passed.
Three long sleepless days.
I’m still numb. Today is worse than normal because of where I am: standing in front of a row of tombstones. Lindsey wanted to be here, but I told her I wanted to do this alone. But now, standing here, I know I need her. This is unbearable.
The pastor is speaking, but through the sobs all around me, I can’t hear his words. Linc was too young to die. He shouldn’t have died. It should have been you. My heartbeat is too fast. It feels like I’m dying. Like I should be buried alongside him.
He shouldn’t have died, the words scream again, my whole body shaking with a su
ppressed sob that I won’t let escape my mouth. The pain inside me burns like an inferno. One lone tear leaks from my eye and my fingers lift quickly to push it away.
I can’t fall apart.
I won’t.
With a deep inhale, I push it down, allowing the blaze to fade away into ice.
I’m completely numb by the time I arrive at Lindsey’s. I’d fired one text to her:
I need you.
I seem to be sending that text often these days, but it’s true. I need her warmth, her strength. I need her protection for the baser needs I can’t control when I’m like this. I need everything she has to offer.
And she lets me.
She lets me walk into her apartment. I don’t even knock. She lets me kiss her. I don’t even say hello.
I just consume.
Take.
Take.
Take until I exploit all her resources. Until I’m so spent, I finally fall asleep.
The days pass.
I can’t rid myself of this feeling. Luckily, Lindsey has called Carson and explained what was going on. She took some time off to be with me. She hasn’t left my side. Not since I left the funeral, a shell of the man I normally am. Broken. She holds me and comforts me. She talks to me when I can’t sleep, which is often. And when I do finally fall asleep from my body’s exhaustion, it’s fleeting, tossing and turning until the early morning hours. Until the sun peeks through the drapes, letting me know a new day has begun.
Again here I am: another night, another nightmare. My body lies in bed and the darkness tries to consume me, my thoughts move faster than I can take.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
Sleep eludes in a series of visions behind my closed lids.
