Page 140 of Ecstasy
Promises, promises.
I can’t keep them, but that doesn’t mean he has the same problem.
I decide to fuck the shower and sink into a bubble bath instead, closing my eyes as I lie back against the tile.
The sound of the water makes me feel at peace. I think about the waves of the ocean, without thinking about that shitty beach party. I think about what it would be like to live at the coast with Alex. Maybe we could even have an outdoor part of our gym. Maybe I could be an example to young girls. Maybe he could help boys from broken home, and we could save lives instead of destroying our own.
Maybe Eli Addison will be a distant memory and the horrible things he and I have done won’t come back to haunt me.
I let myself dream, just for a little while. Because when I open my eyes again, it’ll all slip away and the reality of who I am and what I’ve done will come back to crush me.
I’m not even sure Jesus Christ himself would truly forgive someone like me. And Alex doesn’t have the heart of the son of God, so I know he definitely won’t. No matter what he says, I don’t think he meant it.
He can’t love me.
I’m too broken for that.
It was nice though. While it lasted, it was nice.
45
Zara
“You look great,”Mom tells me, picking at her salad. “Less…tired,” she finishes with, eyeing me as she drops her fork, giving up. I don’t blame her. It’s a fucking garden salad without dressing. At a restaurant in Falls Creek, just a little bit away from Caven, known for its pulled pork.
I think she picked the wrong place to diet at. Of course, Mom doesn’t need to diet. She just does. She always has.
I look at my own burger that I’ve taken two bites out of. But my orange juice is drained, and even though Mom looked at me like I was high when I ordered it, it was damn good.
I play with the paper napkin in my lap. “Thanks.”
She leans back in the rickety wooden chair, tilting her head as she eyes me. Her big blue eyes are full of something like suspicion, and if she accuses me of being on drugs right now, I might throw this napkin to the damn floor and walk right out.
But she doesn’t.
She accuses me of something worse.
“Zara Rose Henderson,” she chides me, but there’s something playful in her words. She leans forward, her hand on the table, and I see her wedding ring glinting in the lights overhead, the gold band etched with roses, pretty on her slender, manicured fingers. “Are you in love?”
My mouth falls open, and I ball the napkin up in my hand.What the actual fuck?
She smiles, small little wrinkles pulling at the crease of her eyes. She tosses back her shiny blonde hair, sitting up straighter and giving me a self-satisfied smirk. “I knew it. You are.” She sighs, blinking at me. “Well, go on. Who is he? God knows you’ve had to deal with a whole hoard of men from me, so I think I should at least get the lucky guy’s name.” She shrugs her shoulders, the tan sleeves of her silk blouse bunching up a little as she does. “Is it that boy you brought to the engagement party?” She narrows her eyes. “The one with the tattoos?”
I feel sick just thinking about him. “I’m not in love,” I manage to say, way too fucking late.
She stares at me, a scowl on her face. “Come on, Zara. Don’t lie to me. I’m your mother.” She smiles, and it’s genuine for once which is kind of weird since it’s directed at me. All I’ve done the past few years is disappoint her. Probably get in the way of her love life. “And obviously, I know a thing or two about love. Or how to fuck it up.”
My eyes go wide, jaw dropping. She just made a self-deprecating joke. She just said the F word. Is this my mother? Has she always been like this and I was just too high to see it?
I laugh, shaking my head a little, relaxing into my seat.
The waitress comes bustling over, glancing at our still-full plates. “Still workin’ on that?”
My mom doesn’t break eye contact with me, as if she’s willing this moment to stick. “Yes,” she says curtly, and I hear the waitress kind of huff at my mother’s tone—and probably the fact that my mother looks a little like a bitch—but she walks away without another word.
“I know,” Mom says suddenly, tapping her nails on the wooden table. We’re tucked into a table in the corner of the restaurant, far from the door—Mom insisted, so none of her clients would “recognize” her, which I had no words for—but she still leans in close to the table and whispers, “It’s that really tall boy I saw you with at the grocery store. It’s him, isn’t it?”
I laugh a little, but I can’t even manage a good denial. Despite the orange juice and the sex that I had and texting Alex and telling him I loved him, I’m still exhausted.
