“That it bothered you!” I snap. “Seeing me with Ryan.”
His eyes flare. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You werejealous.” I poke him in the chest with the tip of my finger. “Admit it! You couldn’t stand seeing me with someone else. Because deep down, in some twisted way… you think I belong to you.”
There’s a long beat of utter silence. So long, I start to count the waves as they crash, a relentless metronome. I reach a dozen before I begin to feel the tingling of regret creeping up my spine. A dozen more before Archer takes a deep, shuddering breath.
“You’re drunk, Jo. You don’t know what you’re saying, and you’re going to regret it in the morning.”
My heart fails inside my chest when he says that. Suddenly, I want to be anywhere but here. Anywhere but withhim. I want to crawl into bed, cry my eyes out, and forget this entire night ever happened. Or, at the very least, escape my own mind for a few blissful hours of unconscious sleep.
Defeat and despair intertwine inside me in a tight knot, filling up my lungs, blocking off my airway, pressing at the back of my eyes. I don’t want to cry. If I start, I may never stop.
Forcing my mouth open, I speak very carefully — each word like a bullet in the air. “Let me go, Archer.”
“Jo—”
“Now. I mean it.”
He does.
In the sudden absence of his steadying hold, the sky spins precipitously around me. I lurch sideways and nearly fall over, only managing to catch myself at the very last moment. So much for my insistence re:sobriety.
When stability returns, Archer is watching me from a careful distance with his arms crossed over his chest. I can’t stand to see theI-told-you-solook on his face, so I stare down at my feet instead.
“I really hate you right now,” I tell him, voice hollow.
“I really don’t give a shit.” He pauses. Extends his hand out to me. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”
I ignore his hand — and his eyes — as I beeline for the driveway.
Chapter Six
ARCHER
I driveus home in strained silence.
It’s nearly three. The streets are empty of traffic, but I stick to the back roads in case a cop is cruising to meet his monthly ticket quota. The last thing I can afford is to be pulled over — not with Jo in the car, not with potential scholarships on the line. Not in general.
Since I got my license last year, I have braked fully at every stop sign. I don’t run reds. Hell, I don’t run yellows. The guys on the team give me shit for it — “Reyes, my grandma drives faster than you!” — but they wouldn’t understand. If a cop pulls them over, they get off with a verbal warning. A free pass. A sedate “Say hi to the folks for me, son.”
Me?
I get the quizzical “How did you afford this nice truck?” look. I get my plates run. And, as soon they see the name REYES pop up in their system, I get the book thrown at me.
Big thanks to my brother Jax for making our family notorious in this town.
The windows are cranked down, letting in a stream of warm, early-summer air. Jo’s got her head hanging out like a dog. I can’t decide if it’s because she’s drunk or because she can’t stand to look at me. Maybe a little of both.
My grip tightens on the wheel and I grimace as pain shoots through the knuckles of my right hand. Using my pitching arm to smash in Snyder’s face wasn’t the smartest choice. But honestly, the way things have been going lately, losing my shot at a scholarship due to an idiotic, self-inflicted injury would just be icing on the fucking cake that is my life.
I resist the urge to press more firmly on the gas pedal. Some days, when I’m out for a drive alone, I’d like nothing more than to steer this truck right off the road, onto the sand, into the ocean. Let sea water fill up the cab slowly, let my limbs start to float. Wait until only an inch of air remains at the ceiling. Gasp at it like a goldfish yanked from his pond. Wonder whether the water is dragging me under or offering me deliverance I’m too blind to accept.
Jo would freak if she ever heard me say something like that out loud. Hell, she’d probably have me signed up for bi-weekly therapy sessions within the hour, so I could sit in a beige-on-beige “safe space” and discuss my feelings with a neutral third party observer. I might even attend, just to appease her. But it wouldn’t change anything. No therapist in the world can fix all the shit that’s gone wrong in my life these past few weeks.
Neither can Jo. That’s why I haven’t told her about any of it. If I did, it would only put her square in the middle of a situation highly prone to going sideways. Because she’d do exactly what she always does — makemyproblemsherproblems. Attempt to fix it. And get herself hurt in the process.
I can’t let that happen. I’d rather have her hate me than see her damaged by the fallout from my family implosion. After all she’s done for me, after all we’ve been through… she deserves a life untouched by emotional shrapnel. Even if that life doesn’t include me anymore.