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CHAPTER

SIXTY-ONE

REMI

Two weeks after I showed up at Cortland’s doorstep with my heart on my sleeve, I heave into the dirty toilet of a frat house. The same one I was at when Cortland supposedly found me in the bushes.

Van is standing by the door, Sloane is behind me, and I feel regret roll through me that I even asked them here.

Sloane had plans with Asa, but like most of her plans for the past two weeks, she dropped them.

To support me. I told her he was more than welcome but for some reason, he needed to stay home with his stepsister anyway.

Weird, but who am I to judge?

“You okay, Rems?” Sloane asks quietly, her hand smoothing up and down my tight black dress.

I spit into the toilet, my vision blurring.

Music is thudding past the closed door at Van’s back.

“Shouldn’t have taken that last shot, Remi,” he says, his words low. “Or, you know, the five before it.”

“You’re very unhelpful,” Sloane spits to Van.

I laugh, closing my eyes as I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth. So am I, Sloane.

My stomach convulses again, and more puke burns its way up my throat, tainted with vodka.

I hurl into the toilet bowl, the smell bitter, making me feel sick all over again as I sink back on my heels, my fingers finding the toilet handle as I flush it all down.

I bury my head in my hands, Sloane still rubbing my back.

“I miss him,” I mumble, the words slurred from my drunken lips. It’s not the first time I’ve said them, and being drunk is the only time I’ll talk about him.

I hear Van groan. “Here we go.”

Sloane ignores him, her scent so much better than the smell of puke in the air as she hugs me close. “I know you do,” she whispers. “But it’s good, you know, that you two got… closure.”

I swallow down the bile in my throat.

“He’s a fucking rapist, what closure could she possibly need besides staying the fuck away from him?” Van snaps, anger edged in every word.

Sloane holds me tighter. She hasn’t asked about my cutting, but I’ve been going to therapy like she told me to and Dr. Ravi hasn’t judged me for blowing it off. My razors are gone. Besides, I’ve traded partying for cutting anyway. Not sure which is better, but drinking too much feels like shit.

“We don’t get to decide how our heart feels,” she tells Van.

“But we can decide what the fuck we do with our heads.”

I sigh, leaning into Sloane. “Shut up, Van,” I grumble, knowing he’s right. Knowing it would’ve never worked.

But I miss him. My chest hurts from that ache.

And I just want an explanation. But he’s ignored my drunken calls. My sloppy texts. He’s given me nothing.

I think of Maya in the cafeteria, when he first saw what I did. I wonder if he just felt bad, because of his brother. If he wanted to get me to fuck him, to get rid of his guilt.

My stomach convulses again. Is he back with Maya?

I haven’t seen her. Chase. Any of them.

The cuts on my arm have all healed, and drinking, spending time out of my dorm, it helps. It’s like running, and at the end of the night, I get dragged back to my thoughts, but at least here, puking, with my mind spinning, I’m not alone.

I’m not hollow all over again.

And I’m not thinking of my stepdad’s question in the car ride back from the hospital.

“Did they break you?” he’d asked me.

I know what he meant.

Internal injuries? Bleeding? How much physical damage did they do?

That’s not the part that matters, Silas. It never was.

I rest my head on Sloane’s arms, and think about how I want to throw myself at every guy here just to feel something, just to get him out of my system. Just to break myself more. Take myself further.

With the taste of vomit in my mouth, Van pissed and guarding the door, and Sloane wrapping me up tight in her arms while I fall apart, it’s so clear.

Yes.

They broke me completely.

Then I went and let them do it all over again.

Wolves have teeth.

And I got bit.

That night as I lie in bed, my head pounding and the taste of vodka still lingering in the back of my throat, my phone buzzes by my head.

I feel around for it in my sheets and hold it up over my face, blinking in the dark so my eyes adjust to the screen.

My heart flutters in my chest.

Cortland

I miss you. Don’t play with knives. I’m sorry. Just hold on for me, baby.

I stare at that message until my screen goes dim.

Then I roll over on my side and close my eyes, drifting toward a drunken sleep.

I’m tired of holding on for you, Cortland.