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The acid burns again.
“That well, huh?” More ice clinking. “You know, normal people eat dinner.”
“And normal people don’t day-drink, yet here we are.”
“It’s evening.” His voice softens, and somehow, that’s worse than the sarcasm. “Did you eat today?”
“Not now.”
“You okay? You sound?—”
“I said not now.”
“Where are you?”
“My parents’.”
“Ah.” Just one syllable but loaded with understanding. “Want company?”
“No.”Yes. Maybe. Please.
“Stay there.”
I hang up.
The phone immediately buzzes again.
Brandon: I’m on my way.
Naomi: Don’t.
Three dots appear, disappear, and appear again.
Brandon: Your dad’s not going to love you more for killing yourself with work.
My thumb hovers over the block button.
Brandon: And neither is your mom.
The dots appear again. Pulsing…
Brandon: But I’m here.
The taste of vomit still lingers on my tongue, mixing with the overwhelming scent of roses, guilt, and self-loathing into a toxic cocktail. Or maybe that’s just the lingering scent of my shame watering the garden.
I can’t face him. Not tonight. Not when I’m this close to falling apart, when the cracks in my carefully constructed facade are showing.
He’d see right through me. He always does.
I open the car door and collapse into the driver’s seat, my hands shaking so bad I can barely grip the steering wheel. The leather interior closes around me like a coffin, and I crank the AC to full blast, desperate for air that doesn’t smell like roses or vomit.
Inhale. Exhale.
My phone keeps lighting up. I chuck it onto the passenger seat, where it bounces and lands face-down.
The engine growls to life as I throw the car into reverse, tires shrieking against the pavement. Manicured hedges blur past, then the pristine white columns of the house, until it finally disappears in my rearview mirror.
My chest loosens with each mile marker I pass, and the wind whips through the crack in my window, drowning out everything except the pounding of blood in my ears.