Page 87 of Grave Love

Blaze cracks his neck, the rage dissolving. Dismissing me.

“We made an arrangement. And if you don’t hold up your end of the bargain, then I will make sure you regret betraying me, even if that means forcing you to watch the people in your life suffer while youlivethrough it all.”

He’s threatening me withlife?

I slap him again, harder this time. His entire head swings from the impact, and for a few seconds, we stay like that. Frozen. My palm stings, but that’s not what startles me.

Blaze simply turns back. Studies me. Contemplates what to do next.

As if he actually cares.

I pick myself up. The walls, the door, the nightstand—everything shifts off balance.

I need to go.

I face the hallway.

“Running away. How fitting,” Blaze mutters.

“Fuck off.”

I drop into the driver’s seat of my car. A damp spot marks the passenger seat, but the paper bag is gone. The extra lozenges. The pills.

He stole those from me too.

I punch the steering wheel and I scream. My throat turns raw. Blaze storms down the driveway. Before he can reach me, I veer forward. Drive without any direction. I drive because I don’t know what else to do. I drive because statistically speaking, I have a better chance of dying in a car wreck than I do with Blaze killing me.

I drive because I can’t face disappointing him right now.

Eventually, I park outside of Last Spring. The sun beats down on the building, and an older man stands outside, right where Blaze and I first discussed our potential arrangement. The man runs a hand through his thin hair, and I think of Blaze, old and weathered like that. Tears well up in my eyes, blurring everything around me.

Am I supposed to apologize to Blaze?

Do I want to see him?

Would apologizing make a difference?

Do I have anything to be sorry for?

I shouldn’t care. This is bullshit. He’s mad at me for something heknewI wanted. We both had the medication. I didn’t keep anything from him that he wasn’t keeping from me.

He lied to me. Andthatfucking hurts. He’s the one who betrayed our arrangement.

I call the doctor. He doesn’t pick up. I call again, and again, and the line goes to voicemail. Frantic, I head to Rosemary Beach. I sit in that ice cream parlor, even buying a cone because the manager insisted that I had to be a paying customer to sit at a table. Rich families stream in and out, side-eyeing me, the poor woman who clearly hasn’t taken a shower in a week and isn’t here for a beach vacation.

I keep calling the doctor.

I ask the teens working at the shop for a cup of water. Hours pass.

Finally, the line crackles. I exit the shop and shield my phone as I step outside. My heart races.

“This is Doctor—”

“I need more,” I say. “Blaze dumped everything. I can’t—”

“Ren?” he asks. “I don’t have any. Someone stole my inventory.”

Weakness fills me. I lean against a column, trying not to fall. My vision fuzzes with white spots. A shopper dressed in pink passes by and sneers at me. She must think I’m drunk.