Page 26 of Renegade Ruin

It’s all been her.

Fuck.

Guilt for my actions starts to creep in before I actively shut it down. I can’t think about that right now.

Maybe you need to.

“Fuck you,” I yell at Jackson “And you, too, Tommy. I know you’re there, too, you opinionated fuck.”

Shit, I’m going crazy, yelling at the imaginary voices in my head. But I can’t go down the path that leads me to scrutinize every action and inaction since the crash and if she had her hand in it. I can’t consider that despite pushing away every single member of my family and friends, it’s Willow who has been the one looking out for me—a silent life raft keeping me from drowning.

Not my siblings who stopped calling when I told them they’d never understand.

Not even my parents, whose love scares me the most, because one day I’ll lose them too.

No.

It’s goddamned Willow.

My chest constricts, and I don’t bother to choke back the guttural sob in my throat as my mind continues to wrap itself around the notion it’s always been her. Anguish morphs into anger, and I pick up the glass beside me and slam it onto the bedside table, shattering it into a million tiny pieces.

The sound of the crash reverberates off the sand-colored walls, and I’m instantly thankful the rooms on either side of me aren’t yet occupied by my new teammates. They don’t need to see me like this. No one does. I’m alone, which is how it needs to be. Phoebe can’t get hurt if I’m not her guardian.I can’t get hurt if I’m alone.

The blood catches my eye long before the pain begins to throb from where glass sliced my palm. I work my fist open and closed. It’s not too deep, but it is my glove hand. Somewherethrough the haze, I know I should care, but my first thought is at least every pitch thrown will ache. A constant reminder of just how fucked I am.

Teetering somewhere between self-loathing and rock bottom, I manage to get to my feet and stumble my way to the bathroom. Careful not to stain the countertop, I turn on the faucet and run my hand under the water, washing away any remaining shards of glass.

My mouth tightens as pain radiates from the wound and out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

That can’t be me.

I catalog my features. Same brown hair and eyes. The signature scruff that has become a bit unruly as of late. The scar on my chin I got from falling off my bike as a kid and the tiny freckle at the corner of my eye that no one but me ever notices.

What’s different is the permanent bruising under my eyes from lack of sleep. The hollow dips in my cheeks. The vacant stare of a man who has lost the will to fight.

I am just so fucking tired.

Tears rim my eyes, and I don’t have it in me to stop them from falling. This stings worse than all the other times reality bitch-slapped me. At least I had the sense to be drunk first or plans to be drunk soon after. Grief when sober is infinitely worse.

My knees buckle and I hit the floor with a thud, my shoulder against the vanity is the only thing keeping me upright.

“Bishop?”

No.

Absolutely not.

This isn’t happening.

She calls my name again, her voice a beacon—it always is—and because life is a cruel bitch, I’m helpless to do anything butlet her find me like this, broken and sobbing on the bathroom floor.

The door creaks open, and in an instant, Willow is on her knees in front of me. “Shit, you're hurt.”

Fucking understatement of the year.

She takes my hand in hers, concern marring her beautiful face. She’s wiped away the smeared makeup I left her with on the plane. Not that she usually wears much, but I like that I can see the faint smattering of freckles that dot the tops of her cheeks.My eyes lock on the blonde curl that has fallen across her face. The curl that, not an hour ago, was wrapped around my fingers.

She shouldn’t be here.

---