Page 23 of Beneath Cherry Blossom Memories

Fuck this guy right now. Fuck all these people.

I shake my head, escaping before he can ask me more dumb questions. I need itquiet.I need the shitty voices to stop berating me.

In the massive living room, I glance at the front door. Jorge ran after him, not three seconds after he had gotten up. Good. I’m glad he has someone. I take the stairs two at a time, forgetting which room we picked. They all look the damn same up here. Opening a random door, I go inside. I rip at my hair, slap my face, and claw at my shirt to get off me as fast as possible.

Hurrying to my bag to get some medicine, I rip it open, digging through clothes and belts and fucking drumsticks.Where is it?Boxers fly over my shoulder, a random book. I don’t read. Who stuffed that shit in here? Probably Leon. He likes those sci-fi novels that I could give two fucks about.

“UGH!” I roar, kicking the bag.

I collapse on the bed, panting and nauseous. Everything hurts all the time. I just wanted to be near him. I just wanted him to see me in a normal setting. All I wanted was for him to open up—just a little.

How do people evendoolive branches anyway? How do you rebuild bridges you burned? I don’t know how.

Ever since that day, I kept trying to convince myself that he’s safe. He’ll be kept away from all of this. And because of how I ended things, he is thankfully ignorant. I can’t be with someone when I don’t know how long I want to stick around. I couldn’t promise him forever because what if I don’t wake up tomorrow?

“Fuck,” I sob into my hands.

Minutes pass while my head shrieks until my ears bleed, and I shakily crawl up to the pillows. I curl into a ball, holding my knees as tightly as possible. I can’t tell where the pain is coming from, only that it’s everywhere. It’severywhere.

Snot dribbles onto my lip, so I swipe it away.

He wants to get married. He wantskids.Fucking kids! I remember looking at Veronica in her sparkly silver gown, dancing with her husband, with all the promises between them evident in their eyes. Did I make him those promises when I couldn’t think? Did I whisper in his ear late at night and tell him I’d make him the happiest man in the world someday?

I don’t know. I can’t remember, and I hate that I can’t.

“I’m sorry,” I say into the wet pillow. “I’m so sorry I can’t remember.”

He thinks I’m just like Oliver. I know that I’m not. But I’m not better, either. While he does the hard shit, on cloud nine all the time, I’m barely hanging on. I don’t want to be like my parents, shooting up in their shitty car the second they got their fix. I don’t want to pass out after and leave my kid in its car seat.

No. I know I’m not like that.

I’d care.

I’d remember. I’d never let it get that bad. If only I could’ve danced.

If that was my life…

“Eli?”Oh, God.I suck back the tears, throat sealing shut. “Why…what are you doing in here?”

All he sees is my bare back. He hasn’t seen my face yet. “I’ll leave. I’ll—” Fuck, I’ll what? I didn’t even realize this was the room he’d picked.

The door closes.

I hold my breath, waiting for his footsteps to recede. Instead, I hear him sigh heavily. A few seconds later, the bed dips towards the bottom. He doesn’t say anything and neither do I for a long time. I honestly don’t know how long. But I can feel a slow trickle of heat coming from him. I listen to his breathing, the soft hum of the heater kicking on.

“Is it quiet?” he asks, so softly.

“Yes,” I admit.

“Okay.”

And we go back to silence.

Ithink I fell asleep because something is poking my leg.

Jerking a little, I lift my head to glance over my shoulder.Shit.I’m still in his room. I glance at the window, and it’s pitch black outside. How long have I been asleep? How long has he been sitting there? Forcing myself to sit, I rub the crust from my eyes, groggy. Phoenix takes a breath, and his shoulders hang in a way that makes my chest burn.

“I didn’t know about Oli,” he starts, voice soft. “He’s what they call a functional addict. It's like he does stuff like anyone else. Never knew a damn thing.” My first instinct is to defend myself, to argue that I’m not like his little brother, but he goes on before I can open my mouth. “When things started going missing from the house—little things like my mom’s earrings or Darien’s old vinyl—we chalked it up to a busy house with a lot of bodies. Things get misplaced a lot. A reasonable explanation.”

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