Page 119 of For Wrath and Redemption
Pressing the issue will make it worse. Prodding her with questions will only lead to more lies. I know it, because I fucking live it. If I push, she’ll retreat further into herself—further away from me—and that’s not acceptable. Not when I need her close.
“Okay,” I murmur into her hair. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
Okay.
It’s all one big fucking lie, and I feeleverything.
Our opening band is halfway through their set, and she’s still not here.
I keep cycling from the dressing rooms to the stage wings. I take out my phone and text her once. It’s delivered, but it stays unread. I start thinking about all the things that could go wrong. She has a head wound. She could have a concussion. She could have internal bleeding. She could?—
I shove my hands in my hair and pull. I try to breathe. I reach into my pocket and come up empty.
Empty.
I pace.
I head out the exit and chain-smoke two cigarettes in a matter of minutes. When I’m still wired, I find my guitar case, rip open the liner and pull out my other cigarette case. There are pre-rolls in it, but no pills.
Like a fucking burglar, I steal back outside. I’ve never tried to hide smoking weed from anyone accept Brynn. Now, it feels like a deception, and I don’t even know why.
No, that’s not true. It’s because of Claire. Her perfectionist, bossy ass. I don’t want to disappoint her. I want to be worthy of her.
I light the pre-roll and suck until the end glows red. I hold it in my lungs until it burns, and I cough. I feel like such an asshole that the first hit only serves to make me feel more like an asshole. Like a liar and a failure.
I take another hit.
I drop my head on the wall and blow the smoke through my nose. I wait and wait. I check my phone. My text still says unread. I finish the pre-roll. A false-calm settles over my limbs. I feel heavier, but my thoughts are still loud. Spinning slower now, but still loud enough that I can’t handle it.
I’ve fucked up.
Inside, I find José.
“Vodka. Something small. Put it under my bed in the suite.”
I don’t wait for him to say anything. I just turn around and find my roadie. I nod to the exit, then go into the bathroom to wait. I splash water on my face, then look in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, and I don’t even have eyedrops.
“Fuck me.”
At five minutes on the dot, I walk slowly to the exit. He’s already waiting for me.
“I don’t have cash on me, but I’ll get you after.”
He nods and hands over the ibuprofen bottle. “I know you’re good for it.”
“Thanks.”
I shove the bottle into my pocket, head back inside, then stop in my tracks.
“Claire.”
She looks from me to the roadie behind me and back.
“What were you just doing?” Her question is whispered, her voice shaky. And Jesus, she looks so sad. She’s not even angry. She’s just sad.
This is exactly what I didn’t want to do.
When I don’t answer her, she closes the distance between us, reaches into my pocket, and pulls out the ibuprofen bottle. Her eyes flutter shut. When she opens them, I expect to see anger. I don’t.
