TRISTAN
Cole didn’t answerwhen I knocked on his door.
Of course he didn’t.
My fist connected with his door again, harder this time. “Cole!”
Nothing.
I wanted to scream that this was all his fault—the blackmail, the lies, the way we’d both become monsters who preyed on a desperate woman. But I couldn’t.
I dove in eyes wide open and abused her right alongside him. I’d thought I could have my cake and eat it too, and that made me as big an asshole as Cole. Worse, maybe, because I had a moral compass, and I knew it was wrong.
When I opened the door, the foul odor of stale alcohol and bile made me gag. It was the sour stench of self-destruction.
No.
Not again.
Cole lay sprawled across his bed in a pool of his own vomit, one arm dangling over the edge, his skin more grey than peach. For one heart-stopping second, he lookedexactly like he had eighteen months ago when I’d found him on our dorm floor, lips blue, his pulse so weak, I’d thought?—
He’s dead. He’s fucking dead, and it’s my fault.
Then, Cole groaned, shielding his eyes from the light spilling through his doorway. “Fuck, turn out the goddamned lights.”
Relief hit me so hard, my knees buckled. I sagged against the doorframe, suddenly dizzy, my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape my chest.
Alive. He’s alive.
“We have practice, asshole.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. I forced myself to move, to grab water and ibuprofen from my room, to pretend this wasn’t ripping me apart from the inside out.
Not again. I can’t do this again.
Even as I thought it, muscle memory took over—the routine I’d perfected sophomore year of cleaning up Cole’s messes, covering his tracks, watching him slowly kill himself while I stood helpless on the sidelines.
Cole hadn’t moved when I returned, still sprawled in his own filth.
“Get up.” The words came out sharper than I intended, fury and fear bleeding through. When he gave me the finger, I dumped the bottle of water on him. “We’re leaving in five minutes. Brush your fucking teeth and get dressed.”
He rolled over onto his back, shielding his eyes. “I quit.”
“Don’t be an idiot. You’re giving your father exactly what he wants.” I kept my voice level, even though I was shattering into a million pieces inside. He was my best friend, but fuck, loving him hurt so bad sometimes.
Cole finally looked up, and the pain in his eyes brokeme. Raw agony and self-hatred stared back. “Fuck,” he muttered. “No. Can’t let him win.”
Cole rolled out of bed like an old man, hunched and broken. When he looked at the vomit-soaked pillow, his face crumpled for just a second—pure self-loathing flickering across his features. “Fuck.”
“We’ll deal with it when we get home. For now, practice.”
“Don’t,” he snarled when I reached for his arm. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
His rejection hit harder than it should have. After everything we’d been through—covering for each other, protecting each other, sharing Eva between us, that fuckingkiss—he couldn’t bear my touch.
Because you let this happen. Again.
“You better be downstairs and ready to go in five fucking minutes.”
I spun on my heel, furious, disgusted, hurt, and unwilling to face any of that this morning. While Cole got his shit together, I poured him a thermos of coffee and defrosted a frozen breakfast burrito from my stash.