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Maybe now that I’ve stopped drinking as much; maybe if I make some healthy life changes, like eating better, or drinking more water, or cutting out caffeine, too; maybe if I talk to someone, a therapist with expertise who can help; maybethosethings will fix it first.
I’ve felt so broken for so long, it’s only now that I feel this roiling anger bleeding through the cracks, my mind stuck on all the reasons why I have so much anxiety in the first place.
I spill a white pill onto the counter, watching as it rolls and shakes and settles. It’s crazy to think that taking this will somehow make the darkest, shittiest parts of my mind disappear.
What else will they do?Those same parts whisper.
My throat grows thicker, my hands clammy, my heart beating against my ribcage.
I know what I need to do; I can’t keep living this way.
But the irrational part of my brain is screaming that they’re a terrible idea.
You might not feel like yourself anymore, after taking them. They might take away your anxiety, but what if you’re left feeling numb to the rest of the world? They could make you tired, dizzy, nauseous all the time, and wouldn’t that be miserable? What if you’re not diligent enough and forget to take them for days at a time, and it makes everything that much worse? What if you have an adverse reaction? What if your heart stops beating?
My mind is an endless loop of dark thoughts, and I don’t want to deal with the possibilities right now.
I might have had a panic attack today, one of epic proportions, but it was understandable. I nearly lost the only part of Quinn I have to keep with me.
I swipe my hand over the counter, intending to watch the little white pill drop down into the wastebin below, but then there’s another softer, quieter, hidden part of my mind that screams—If demons are real, anxiety is one of them. A frequent visitor. And I open the door, and welcome him right the fuck in.
So I pick up the tiny white pill, place it back in my palm, and toss it into my mouth, swallowing it down with some sink water cupped in my hand.
I won’t stand in my own way any longer.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jude
I’m no saint. I’ve kissed plenty of women and have slept with my fair share of others. But over the past year, I haven’t touched a single fucking one of them. And that’s not for a lack of effort on their part. I’ve been propositioned plenty—at Boss’s numerous parties, and at Landon’s, too. After every game won and even most of those we’ve lost. One girl was even brazen enough to lay naked in my bed, waiting, a fuckingbowwrapped around her body—Jameson, Parker, and Williams’ fucked up idea of a birthday gift.
But I walked away from each of those instances feeling like an asshole.
It didn’t matter that Declan and I weren’t technically together, it felt like cheating. It felt fuckingwrong.
I haven’t so much as entertained the thought of hooking up with someone since.
As brash as it may sound, I’ve been beating off to thoughts of her instead. Becoming well acquainted with my right hand. Perhaps a littletooacquainted.
It might be pathetic, but I couldn’t give two fucks. It hasn’t felt right to pursue anyone else when the girl who occupies my thoughts is right here, halfway across the country ten months of the year but thirty-minutes outside my hometown now that I’m back.
To say I’m feeling needy as fuck would be the understatement of the century, though. Especially now that she’s given me the okay. But admittedly, I’ve still held myself back. Because Declanis the kind of girl you date, who you take out and move through the steps with.
The night we had dinner, I’ve considered our first date, even if the lovely motherfucker I call my brother third-wheeled it half the time. The tattoo shop—as dramatic as I may have made matters—our second. The day at the Met, and Central Park, our third. So that would make tonight our fourth—with the added pressure of bringing her home to meet my family.
My parents. And Thomas, who she hasn’t met yet as well.
It’s backward, I understand, considering how much time we spent together last summer. Or how weendedthe summer, to be more specific.
This summer, though, I want to get it right.
______
Two raps sound at my window, tearing me from my musings.
Declan leans down with an easy smile gracing her lips. She’s wearing a floral dress that hits her thighs, showing off her tanned and toned legs. The innocent, lacy white socks that peek from the tops of her shit-kicking boots have me holding my breath and counting backward from ten before I can find my composure, exit the car, and open the door for her to let her in.
Her scent drifts across my front with the wind, a sunny day at the beach invading my senses. She’s worn her hair down, but there’s an intricate braid woven through one side, pulling her pink hair back from her face. She’s wearing just a touch of makeup, too. A light sweep of blush and some gloss, the blue hue of her gaze accented by darkened, curled lashes.