Page 219 of Did They Break You

I sigh, leaning into Sloane. “Shut up, Van,” I grumble, knowing he’s right. Knowing it would’ve never worked.

But I miss him. My chest hurts from that ache.

And I just want an explanation. But he’s ignored my drunken calls. My sloppy texts.He’s given me nothing.

I think of Maya in the cafeteria, when he first saw what I did. I wonder if he just felt bad, because of his brother. If he wanted to get me to fuck him, to get rid of his guilt.

My stomach convulses again.Is he back with Maya?

I haven’t seen her. Chase. Any of them.

The cuts on my arm have all healed, and drinking, spending time out of my dorm, it helps. It’s like running, and at the end of the night, I get dragged back to my thoughts, but at least here, puking, with my mind spinning, I’m not alone.

I’m not hollow all over again.

And I’m not thinking of my stepdad’s question in the car ride back from the hospital.

“Did they break you?”he’d asked me.

I know what he meant.

Internal injuries? Bleeding?How much physical damage did they do?

That’s not the part that matters, Silas.It never was.

I rest my head on Sloane’s arms, and think about how I want to throw myself at every guy here just to feel something, just to get him out of my system. Just to break myselfmore.Take myselffurther.

With the taste of vomit in my mouth, Van pissed and guarding the door, and Sloane wrapping me up tight in her arms while I fall apart, it’s so clear.

Yes.

They broke me completely.

Then I went and let them do it all over again.

Wolves have teeth.

And I got bit.

That nightas I lie in bed, my head pounding and the taste of vodka still lingering in the back of my throat, my phone buzzes by my head.

I feel around for it in my sheets and hold it up over my face, blinking in the dark so my eyes adjust to the screen.

My heart flutters in my chest.

Cortland

I miss you. Don’t play with knives. I’m sorry. Just hold on for me, baby.

I stare at that message until my screen goes dim.

Then I roll over on my side and close my eyes, drifting toward a drunken sleep.

I’m tired of holding on for you, Cortland.

CHAPTER

SIXTY-TWO

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