Page 66 of Beneath Cherry Blossom Memories

“No, I won’t because this is how it is, motherfucker. You never ask. Never. You assume. Always assuming and look at what’s happening? I have prescriptions foreverything. I’ll die on this hill before I ever let you make me feel less than for trying to feel better. So, yeah, Phoenix. It’s over.”

I’m crying. Fuck. The ambulance and police cars are coming down the street, the lights flashing, signaling we won’t be able to keep fighting. And he’s quitting.

He’ll keep using everything but me.

He’s fucking quittingme.

“Nothing to say now? Good. Keep it that way.” He sits on the curb, and I’m frozen solid.

“Damn it,” I park the car and take a deep breath.

Am I still doing it? Assuming? Being a fucking animal because I have trauma I don’t want to acknowledge? We’d never spoken to each other like that before. I never knew he felt that way, and when he first showed up at my apartment two weeks ago, saying he changed his mind, I thought we moved past those festering wounds. That we’d finally let them heal. And now Jorge said he tried tokillhimself?

God, what have I done to him?

I know the answer. Admitting out loud is another thing. No one knows the details of the night or how it was my fault we crashed. It’s my fault he left me, too. Because I do what he said. I assume. I assumed he was some lowlife addict too selfish to accept love over drugs. I treated him like Oliver. I still do. My brother's problems shouldn’t be the crutch I use to project all that hurt onto another person I love. That’s the truth. Eli might be an addict, but I’m a bad person.

I’m a bad person.

Parking the car out front of Jorge’s little house, I grip the steering wheel and breathe for a few moments. I’m scared of what I’ll see, of how I’ll react. My first instinct is to be livid because suicide is the coward’s way out. That’s what I’ve always thought. Do I have any real experience to explain my thought process? No. I can’t run off instinct. I can’t judge him right now. The fact is, I want Eli in my life. I want him to be mine again—only mine. Before, I wasn’t able to accept that to have him, I’d have to rewire my damn brain.

Before, I wanted him to change for me and not himself. I was a selfish motherfucker. If everyone knew the truth about how I really am, they’d be ashamed even to know me. My mom especially. She didn’t raise me to be this giant fucking toolbag. I might have felt left out, ignored, and forgotten, but I grasped the fundamentals.

I can do better.

No. Iwilldo better. I have to.

Sniffling and wiping my face, I force myself out of the car and tell myself to keep an open mind. Don’t be a prick. Don’t fucking argue. Just…be there.If I’m going to fight, it has to beforEli, not against him.

I swallow hard and knock on the front door. Jorge opens it immediately as if he’s been waiting. Our eyes meet, a sad look in his. I don’t even want to know what he sees in mine. My lips part to say something…anything. He shakes his head and steps aside.

My stomach churns when I walk in, catching the form on the pullout in the living room. Jorge grabs my shoulder in solidarity like he fucking knows it’s all my fault.

“I’ll be in my room if you need me,” he whispers.

I nod slowly, eyes unable to move from Eli. God, he’s justlayingthere, unblinking, barely breathing, and so pale. His fingers twitch where they’re resting on his stomach, the blanket thrown over his lower half. He won’t look at me or even acknowledge I’m here. I want to be angry, fuck I do. I want to rage and yell and demand answers like I usually do. But I shove it all down and make my way to the pullout. The tiniest inhale of breath is all I hear from him.

What do I say? How do I do this?

For once, I wish I’d been there when Oli hit his lows because then I’d have some experience. This is what I get for being a motherfucker. I’m aimless, floundering in the open space between us. My fingers ball up, the blunt nails digging into my palms. I try not to grind my teeth, but it happens anyway. So does the pinch of my eyebrows, the curl of my lip. He looks terrible.

Scruffy, overgrown five-o-clock shadow that’s teetering near a full-on beard. His hair is greasy as if he hasn’t showered in days, and despite wearing Jorge’s oversized Amon Amarth shirt, I doubt he’s even changed his clothes before he called my best friend for help. My heart hammers uncontrollably while I shift on my feet, glaring down at him like the fucking grim reaper.

Jesus. Get a grip, Phoenix.

“Hi,” I say, hoping my voice sounds nice. After several seconds of no response, I try again, forcing a gentle, “I’m glad you called Jorge.”Lies. You should’ve called me.I wince at my thoughts.

“I didn’t try to kill myself,” he whispers, blinking hard and scooting over to make room for me.

I lower to the edge, careful not to touch him. Obviously, I don’t believe him atall. Jorge wouldn’t just claim something that serious without hard evidence. “Alright.”

“His sister stitched me up.”

Sonia is a nurse working towards a PhD. I’m surprised she didn’t call someone, though.

“How was your parents’?”

The casual question throws me off. Of course, he knew I was there. Wetting my lips and deciding to go with it, I say, “Good. Got to spend time with Delilah.”

---