Page 47 of The Worst Kind of Promise
Well, it’s too late for that, buddy.
“Yeah, it’s not my fault,” I slur, swaying a bit before I thump my shoulder against the wall, breathing out a sigh of relief that something was there to catch me. My head’s foggy, and my tongue feels chalky. I know I should be more than mad, but the damn Molly is dulling the anger rioting inside of me, replacing it with tooth-achingly sweet happiness. How is anybody supposed to take me seriously when I’m as intimidating as a cupcake?
“Stop trying to absolve her,” Hayes snaps, waggling his finger in front of my face.
It looks like there are little trails of light projecting off his digit, a blur of red and blues, like astigmatism through a windshield on a rainy drive.
“I’m not. I’m just saying that maybe you need to ease up a little.”
“Oh, so now you’re giving me ‘parenting’ advice? You have no idea what Faye needs right now.”
“She doesn’t need you fucking berating her,” Kit snarls, hostility tarnishing his voice. Or maybe it’s protectiveness.
Each word is punctuated, and my heart bloats, a familiar warmth flowering in between my thighs. My mind’s seemed to forget that we’re both half-naked, but my body’s more than ready to make up for lost time. I also seem to have forgotten that I’m mad at him. But I am mad at him for…for…something. It was something he said.
Hayes ignores Kit. “Do you realize how irresponsible you’ve been? Taking drugs a stranger gives you without telling anyone?” Anger overwhelms my brother’s features, but so does fear. Fear that I’ve never seen before. It lives in his watercolor eyes, extending all the way down to his very soul.
“You take drugs all the time!” I contradict, fists clenched at my sides, my nostrils stinging from the ammonia-like scent of the bathroom.
“That’s different, Faye! And for your information, I only took them a few times in college. Always surrounded by people I trusted.”
“How is that any different? Stop treating me like…” Like I’m a baby? Like I’m fragile? Like I’mbroken?
The words suffer a swift death on my tongue, and for the sake of my sanity and the tears lining my eyes, I don’t finish my sentence. Instead, I sit through a long lecture and a hot-worded reproach, getting the occasional reprieve when Kit butts in to add an unnecessary comment.
If I had a diary—which I should probably invest in after the trauma I’ve endured this year—here’s what I’d write for today’s entry:
FUCK YOU, KIT LANGLEY. I HOPE YOUR DICK FALLS OFF IN A FREAK ACCIDENT.
18
EPIPHANY, HERE I COME
KIT
I’m pissed. And it’s a hundred degrees right now. But I’m not pissed because I’m stuck in Satan’s hot-as-balls ass crack—I’m pissed because I can’t stop thinking about Faye. We haven’t talked since the party, and if my calculations are correct, then it’s been approximately five thousand seven hundred sixty minutes since we last exchanged any words. I try to give her space, only entering my room if she’s somewhere else in the house, but every time I see that weird face roller thing she has in the bathroom or the questionable romance book she has on the nightstand, leaden guilt balls in my stomach.
I fucked up. Simple as that. I said things I can’t take back. I said things that made her cry. I said things that I didn’t mean. All because I was convinced it was the right thing to do…for her sake. Which is stupid, I know. I can’t dictate what’s right or wrong for anybody. And now I’m paying for my cruelty, my heart minutes—maybe even seconds—away from bursting.
My grip on the rubber bars in front of me is slipping, slick with an accumulation of sweat from my hour workout. I came in with high hopes that I’d be able to clear my mind, but I have an even more stress-muddled brain. Perspiration rolls down the bare hills of my pectorals and through the rivulets in my abs. My shorts are suctioned to my nether regions, and moisture down there is…a recipe for disaster.
As I elongate my arms out to the side, the burning sensation that’s been building in my chest and triceps distracts me momentarily from the mental anguish, but it only lasts for so long. I push through a few more reps before succumbing to exhaustion, the metal of the chest press machine clanging back into place.
I’m sorry. I never meant to lead you on, Faye.
Thiswas never going to work.
You were just so blinded by something you could never have.
My words razor through my brain, slashing through the fleshy matter, an irrepressible reminder of one of the worst days of my life. A lot of people talk about how difficult it is to be on the receiving end of a broken heart. What I don’t hear is how difficult it is to be the one doing the heart breaking, secretly knowing it’s the last person you’d ever want to hurt. Knowing that you have to end things because they deserve better, or because they were simply the right person at the wrong time.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m a douchebag. No matter how shitty I feel, I know Faye is feeling it ten times worse. And I’ll never forgive myself for the way I treated her.
Leaning forward, I reach for my neatly folded towel, wiping the excess sweat off my face. The sound of jovial laughter hits my ears before I see anyone turn the corner into our own private gym room, and then Fulton’s and Gage’s figures slink into frame, followed by Bristol with a towel draped over his shoulder and a drink in his hand.
The guys know I’ve been…off. But they’ve been smart enough to give me space. And, well, Hayes has been giving me the silent treatment ever since we got into the fight over Faye. It wasn’t my place to step in and help, but I had to try and avert some of the blame. She got a harsh beatdown. Hayes was furious. I think he still is.
Bristol leans up against the machine, the last of his green smoothie clutched between his fingers. “You finally ready to talk?”
