“This isn’t where I wanted to go,” I admit, trying to keep my voicesteady. “I like going down to the hotel beach. That’s where I write. You know that.”
He frowns. “I thought you’d like to try something different. I didn’t think it would be such a big deal.”
“But we didn’t talk about it at all,” I complain, on the verge of tears. “You just made the decision without me,” I say, my words heavy with disappointment. We so rarely go anywhere anymore that this choice of beach is a big deal for me.
He sighs, exasperated. “So I made a call. Big deal. You’re really going to ruin the day because we went to a different beach?”
“You ran off without me,” I add quietly. “I felt… left out.”
He softens slightly. “I’m sorry, you’re right. I should’ve waited for you. I just wanted to get in the water.”
His half-apology hangs in the air, and I realize how ridiculous I must sound. I wanted him to hold my hand, lead me into the water like a child. It’s embarrassing, and I hate myself for being upset over something so small.
“It’s okay,” I mumble, brushing it off, though the sting still lingers.
We return to the car, but the weight of unspoken tension follows us. This little moment—the unmet expectations, the miscommunication—feels like a microcosm of something bigger. Something is unraveling between us, and I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I feel like I’m losing every aspect of us that I used to love. As well as everything I loved about Sunset Cay.
I try to tell myself it’s just one of my moods, that I’m overreacting. But deep down, I know it’s more than that. I’m clinging to the hope that things will go back to how they were at the very beginning, that this slump is temporary. But hope is a fragile thing, and with every small disappointment, it feels like it’s slipping further out of reach.
79
CIGARETTE SMOKE & SCREAMS
Dex
Growing up with parents suffering from addiction is hard. And my mom’s issues were no fucking joke.
She overdosed when I was young, leaving me in a car filled with cigarette smoke and most of our worldly belongings. A good samaritan happened to be walking past and heard my screams and rescued me. We’d been evicted the week before.
I guess it was only a matter of time before it happened, based on what I’ve been able to piece together over the years.
And honestly, maybe that saved my life. Having her go when she did.
A revolving door of stepfather types… that’s what she’d call them all, even if they’d only been dating for a few weeks. I was starting to get to the age where the way they treated her was kicking in some kind of protective instinct. I was always a tall kid for my age, but I would have been no match for some of these guys she’d have around. They were tall, too, and had filled out and easily had a solid hundred pounds on me.
But I have, let’s say, an intense problem with men who hurt women, and that’s never really gone away.
In fact, if anything, it's intensified.
And everything is magnified when it comes to Margaux.
80
NOT WHAT I’M HERE FOR
Afew days later
The greasy smell of bacon hits me before my eyes are even open, thick and cloying. At first, it’s not entirely unpleasant—I love bacon as much as the next person. But there’s something about the way it’s being cooked now that twists my stomach, making it hard to breathe through the heaviness in the air. I pull the blanket over my face, trying to escape it, but it’s already in my nose, clinging to the walls and fabric of the apartment.
The distinct scent of hash browns joins the mix, and for a brief moment, my heart lifts. I adore hash browns. But then I remember where I am. The hope dissipates. I already know what I’m going to find when I walk into the kitchen. It’s not crispy, golden nuggets of potato cooked to perfection. It’s going to be something drowned—no, suffocated—in unnecessary oil.
I rub my eyes, stretching as I rise reluctantly from the mattress. The air conditioning hums softly in the background, the room dim because the curtains stay perpetually drawn. My feet shuffle across the cool floor as I make my way to the kitchen.
And there it is—exactly what I expected. Matty is swaying next tothe stove, humming to himself as if he's headlining some concert only he’s attending. The pan in front of him looks like a death trap—half full of shimmering grease. Flaccid bacon curls at the edges and sputters along the sides, swimming lazily in oil. Hash browns sit in the center, bloated and lifeless, like tiny fried corpses.
Not to be dramatic, but it’s one of the most disgusting things I’ve seen cooked in my life. The oil reaches halfway up the pan, the entire setup one wrong move away from an apartment fire. It’s not even deep frying—it’s some bastardization between shallow frying and pure chaos. I shudder, imagining flames licking the cabinets while Matty, oblivious, sings along to his own drunken soundtrack, even though it’s only morning.
He catches me standing there and offers a lopsided grin, bobbing to a rhythm only he can hear. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes glassy—definitely still drunk from last night. I lean against the doorway, trying to mask my disgust, but the greasy air presses against my skin like a sticky film.