Page 80 of Severed Heart

“You want to know what I’ve learned these last few years about so-called fucking adults?” he delivers with a voice full of venom. “That adults are just a bunch of petrifiedkids, running around, fucking up their lives. Acting like toddlers while making bigger mistakes than any kid my age could and numbing themselves fuckingstupid after, all the while claiming undeserved moral high ground. While in truth, a majority of them are maskingwho they really areand what they want from the rest of the world. So, excuse me if I take my confidence, arrogance, and lingering youth over being the next in line to live the adultlieany day.”

His bite stings me briefly mute, but I manage my reply. “Maybe this is the truth, but I am not your answer.”

“No, maybe you’re not,” he relays bitterly, “but you’re only a dozen years older than me. So, you can drop the bullshit pretense you think fits our unconventionalfriendship.” He spits the word as if it annoys him. “You’reno oneof authority over me who has to act any certain way in my company. Not that you’ve ever bothered too muchbefore.”

During the rest of the ride back to my house, I keep my eyes focused forward, only catching glimpses of his hands tightening on the steering wheel, along with the increasing rigidity in his shoulders. His affections—for whatever they may be—are misplaced, and I can’t allow him to get any closer. Can’t allow that look I sometimes catch whispers of in his eyes to deepen any further. Knowing that if I entertain any of it for a single second, it could be detrimental to our friendship. One I had hoped so much to keep but feel slipping through my hands with his offense. When he parks in my driveway and angrily opens the passenger door for my exit, I catch his wary gaze and will him to understand.

I am poison, beautiful boy. I am poison.

“Tyler, please understand I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine. I’m sorry, I lashed out,” he says, cupping the back of his head. No lingering warmth to be found when he lifts my keys to take. “I guess I misunderstood our friendship. Thanks for setting me straight. Night, Delphine.”

The look of dejection he leaves me with follows me as I speed to my freezer to open a new pint.

* * *

I’m sorry, General. I didn’t mean it. I was a frothing-at-the-mouth asshole.

General, it’s been a week. It’s hard to apologize when you won’t let me.

General Half-Pint: Is fine I workin g

It’s not fine. I’m sorry. Want to go fishing tomorrow so I can make it up to you?

General Half-Pint: Non I bsy wrk many shifs solder keep run miles

No issue there. I’m up to six a day.

Hey General. I graduated today!

General Half-Pint: very hap py for this privaet for accompihsl this

Up for a game tonight to help celebrate?

General Half-Pint: Non I wo rk you shuold celbrate with Dom and Seen

Maybe this weekend? Bet the fish are biting.

Chapter Twenty-Three

TYLER

SUMMER 2005

IFUCKED UP.

I let my guard down. Despite my best attempts to conceal them, Delphine glimpsed my attraction and sensed my feelings when I pitched a bitch, and I’m now paying hell for it. Since our movie night, she’s withdrawn almost completely from me. Dismissing our game nights only to send me on fool’s errands by way of physical training. She’s checked out, and after months of embarrassing brush-off texts, my battered pride is letting her.

While resentment brews for the ease in which she’s dismissed me, my ache and missing of her only grows. Whether it be the resentment for the space she’s purposely putting between us, or the gnawing of her absence, I raided the entirety of Delphine’s cigar box when she and Dom were working their shifts this past weekend.

I spent hours discovering what haunts her—one of them in which I arranged the letters by what postmarked envelopes remained. The postmark itself timestamping their correspondence lasted only months before Celine and Beau fled to the States. Celine’s and Delphine’s escalating situations leading to multiple letters sent by one or both per week. It was the last few letters that kept a stinging ball lodged in my throat as some understanding of what triggers Delphine started clicking into place.

When I lock myself in the bedroom, he uses a butterknife to release it. To get to me.

A sting which only increased as I arranged the letters back in the way I found them—not that they’re ever hidden. Delphine’s foolproof safe, at least where I’m concerned, is in thinking there’s a language barrier. A barrier I’ve spent months eradicating—my intent to surprise her—but have now used instead to wrong her by invading her privacy in a way I can’t take back or fucking forget. Not for a second.

He’s raping me now, Celine.