Page 119 of Almost Rotten

My lungs constrict painfully. How could he think I would? “Never,” I vow.

He cocks one brow in challenge, like he doesn’t believe me.

Holding his gaze, I lift my chin, committed to being fully present for his story.

His voice is low, dark when he finally speaks. “Do you know who Colton Saint is?”

Frowning, I search my memory, but come up empty, so I shake my head.

“He’s the lead singer of Lullaby Alibi.”

Oh. I’ve heard of them.

“We were neighbors growing up,” he continues. “Our families were close. Our dads spent most weekends together, drinking beer and watching games in the garage.”

I don’t think he realizes it, but his body has gone tense.

“Neither of us was into sports. We were into music. He was into skateboarding and guitar. I was into anything he deemed cool. Before the world idolized him, I thought Colton hung the moon and all the stars.”

“You loved him,” I surmise.

He nods. “I did. And I’d venture to say that he thought he loved me, too, despite all the toxicity and damage he caused.”

My hackles raise. I hate where this is going. I’m never listening to Lullaby Alibi again. “What happened?” I hedge.

“Life happened.” He sighs, then let’s a few moments pass before continuing. “Colton was my first kiss. But he didn’t want anyone to know. We were young. I thought he was still coming to terms with his sexuality. I was patient. I was willing to wait. I wanted so badly to be with him.” His hold on me tightens. “I twisted myself into any shape he wanted, became every version of myself I thought he’d like. But in doing so, I suffered irreversible self-harm. By my sophomore year of high school, he ignored me in public and even joined in when other kids made fun of the way I looked or dressed.”

I gasp. “That’s awful.”

Mercer shrugs. “I was scrawny, kids are cruel, and I wore the same Blink-182 sweatshirt every day for three years. Besides, that’s not the awful part of the story.”

Unease stirs in my stomach as he ducks his head and breathes me in, like he’s siphoning strength from me.

“I—” He sighs and roughs a hand over his face. “I let him use me. I wanted him to use me—to need me. I gave in and ran to him, over and over again. He’d make fun of me in physics class, and he’d torment me on the bus ride home. But then he’d send atext. Or an instant message. He’d convince me to meet up in his garage after school, before his band came over to practice, while our parents were still at work. I let him use my mouth. My hand. My ass.” With a trembling hand, he plays with the ends of my hair. “I let him use me for years, hoping that one day he’d see me as more than a vessel.”

“How long did it go on?” My words are reedy, but I do my best to keep the pain out of them.

“Too long.”

For a moment, he’s silent, like maybe that’s as much as he’s comfortable sharing tonight, but I wait him out.

“I started cutting the summer after sophomore year. At first, I cut my wrists. But the wounds were too obvious, and I was afraid someone would see and think I was trying to kill myself.”

Lips pressed together, I hold back the question I’m desperate to ask.

“I wasn’t,” he assures me. “But after allowing myself to feel so utterly useless every damn day for years, I just wanted to feelsomething.”

I close my eyes and lower my head. That kind of desperation is one I’m familiar with. I know exactly how it feels to chase a sensation in the search of a reprieve from inescapable mental and emotional pain.

“I cut myself every weekday for close to three years.”

Head on his shoulder, I drag my thumb over his stubble. “Not on the weekends?”

“I spent most of my weekends here with Noah.”

“You don’t do it anymore, right?” I ask. I haven’t seen any evidence of self-harm. “What made you stop?”

“On the day Lullaby Alibi signed their first record deal and Colton told me he was dropping out of school to go on tour, I lost it. I didn’t know how to cope. I didn’t know how to grieve a person I’d never really had to begin with.”