Page 69 of Chaos

Finn runs his tongue over his teeth before kissing them. Setting the tray on my bedside table, he knuckles the head of an extremely meddlesome teenager. “Objectifying the staff again, little one?”

Not even a little embarrassed, Eliza smiles innocently. “Does staring at Lottie’s ass count as objectifying the staff?”

I grab the first thing I find—a half-used tube of toothpaste, unfortunately, instead of something that would really get the message across. Like a rock—and chuck it at my little sister. “Get out of here, brat.”

Dodging the attack, Eliza sticks her tongue out as she scrambles to her feet, miraculously deciding to listen to me for once—unmiraculously deciding to be a little shit on her way out. “Say goodbye,” she says to her phone screen, flipping it around so I get an eyeful of a smirking, waving Grace. “Lottie and her lover want to be alone now.”

I growl a curse and reach for another projectile, but by the time my fingers curl around a hairbrush, she’s already dropped through the trapdoor. With nothing more than a snort and a shake of her head, Lux leaves too, carrying the little boy wondering aloud what a lover is.

“In my defense,” Finn says once the sound of raucous giggling fades to less of a cacophony, more of a nuisance. “You wear very tight jeans.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble and pray to fucking everything that the flush creeping up my neck isn’t as obvious as it feels. “I know, you like ‘em. You’re gonna give me a big head, cowboy.”

He cracks a grin. “Gonna?”

Droning a sarcastic laugh, I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly very aware of how very small my little attic space is. “Is that what that’s for?” I gesture at the tray piled high with all my usual breakfast fixings—buttered toast with Marmite and eggs, and a glass of juice, a mug of coffee, the Owala bottle I always fill and leave in the fridge overnight so I have cold water for work. “Hoping if you butter me up, I’ll bend over in myvery tight jeans?”

Choking on something that sounds an awful lot likeJesus fucking Christ,Finn shakes his head. “Just being nice,” he roughly claims, voice ragged. “Friendly.”

Now, why does that word make my stomach hurt? My eye twitches too, something that’s not quite distrust, but awfully close to it, making me squint at a perfectly soft-boiled egg. “Why?”

“Because I wanted to.”

Why?I almost ask again, but I swallow it. “Thanks,” I mouth instead, clearing my dry throat. “For this, and for yesterday.”

“What’re friends for?”

“I have no idea,” I answer without thinking.

I expect a mocking grin. A pitying one, maybe. Not the tender, sweet one I get.

Nor the even softer, “We’ll fix that.”

Turns out, you don’t feel the worst the day after an accident. You think you feel shitty, you think you’re in pain, but no. That’swhat the dayafterthe day after is for. Or maybe I actually did feel this crappy yesterday, but I had a houseful of sisters distracting me, a nephew to keep me occupied too, and just as many over-excited dogs zooming around the living room.

Today, I’ve got nothing. No sisters, no Alex, no roommates, not even Grouch. Just me and a silent, empty house, and as much as I want to enjoy it, I don’t. As much as I try to take advantage of it, I can’t.

I can’t go for a run. Can’t sit still long enough to watch a movie, to knit that blanket I promised, to do anything remotely stationary. Can’t smoke because not only is my lighter gone, but my cigarettes have magically disappeared too. A girl can only scream at the sky for so long, and even that doesn’t settle me.

Nothing does. Nothing occupies my mind for longer than five minutes before my thoughts start straying, before the ache in my back, my ankle, my entire goddamn body starts to make me twitch. To make mewant.

To make me scour every square inch of the kitchen in search of a single drop of alcohol.

When I find none, I slap my palms against the counter in frustration. I glare at the marble, clucking my tongue as I try and fail to drown the overwhelming urge to drink by chanting that stupid,uselessprayer.

It doesn’t work. It never has for me. I need something else, something that’s actually distracting, something that doesn’t make me think of alcohol or alcoholics or the fact that come tomorrow, I’ll be sitting in that fucking draughty hall again.

Grunting my frustration, I stalk the length of the living room, my footsteps so fucking loud despite my bare feet, so fuckinggratingas they echo around the lofty room. From where it’s stashed in the pouch pocket of my hoodie, I fish out my phone, fiddling around with shaky hands until I solve at least one of my problems.

As a melodic, thumping beat connects to the bluetooth speaker sitting on the mantlepiece and blasts my eardrums, I sigh with relief. But that restless energy still simmers beneath my skin so I keep pacing, but then my ankle starts bitching so I rock restlessly on the balls of my feet to the erratic rhythm. Eyes squeezing shut, I mumble the lyrics beneath my breath, swaying in time because fuck it.

Unhinged dance session it is.

I’m positive there isn’t a single thing attractive about the way I bounce around the living room, but I don’t care. That’s not the point. It’s not like I have an audience, not like I’m dancing for anyone. I just need to burn this energy off, to get it out, and if that involves some frenzied arm whirling and a few arrhythmic high kicks, then so be it.

Half a playlist passes before I wind down—before I feel like Icanwind down. Panting, I stoop to lower the volume, and it’s as my fingers brush my phone where I dropped it on the sofa that something in my peripheral catches my attention right as a low voice remarks, “That doesn’t look like resting.”

I yelp.

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