He stands, staring down at me, arms crossed, lip curled in disgust once more. “What’s next? More parties? Drugs? Heavy drinking? An endless pussy parade? More shitty pictures the PR company has to try to stop from being printed? Are we going to find you dead in a ditch somewhere from alcohol poisoning this time?”
“Fuck off, man. That’s never been a possibility.” I’m tired. So tired. Tired of not being worth anything to the people who are supposed to care about me. Tired of everyone choosing their own fucked up rules over me. Tired of not being enough.
“You fuck off,” he shoots back. “And yes, that has definitely been a possibility. This is what you do, dude. Something bad happens, and you go on a bender. One of us has always tried to be with you to make sure you don’t get hurt. Make sure you get home safely. For a long time it was Blaire and me. And I’ll own the fact that I fucked that arrangement up. I found Sam. Learned about Maddie. Fell in love with my high school sweetheart all over again, and somehow me ending things with Blaire made her end her arrangement with you, too. I’m sorry for that. I really, really am.”
He sniffs and looks away, showing an emotion other than contempt for me for the first time since he showed up at my door. When he continues, his voice is soft again. “You’ve been one of my best friends for years. You were there for me when I was trying to make sense of the world after my dad died. You were happier for me than anyone when I told you about Sam and Maddie. I know I gave you shit about going after Viola, but I think you were both good for each other. I hate to see it end like this. And over something so stupid. I hate to see you blowing yourself up out of spite.”
That seems to be what he really came to say, because he drops his arms and heads for the door. “Let me know when you’re ready to pull your head out of your ass and fix this,” he calls over his shoulder on his way out.
And then I’m left alone. Just me and my bottle of tequila.
And the results of all the shitty decisions I’ve ever made.
Chapter Forty-Two
Viola
It’s been two days since Mason left without a word. And in that time, he still hasn’t reached out.
Of course, neither have I. Which I’m sure is super mature.
But he left without saying goodbye. I’m pretty sure that means we’re over. And any texts or phone calls from me now would only read as pathetic and desperate.
Which is accurate, but that doesn’t mean I want him to see me that way.
Dragging myself out of my childhood bedroom and down the stairs to the kitchen, my mom beams at me from the table, standing and giving me a big hug. “I’m just so happy you’re back home,” she says. She’s been saying some variation of that every so often since I showed up unannounced the night before last.
I haven’t bothered to correct her assumption that I’m home for good. That I’ve come to my senses, quit Cataclysm, and broken up with Mason.
While Mason and I might be broken up, I’m not the one who initiated it. And if I had enough energy to cast blame, I would be blaming my mother. She’s the one who put me in the position of needing to gather myself, to shove all my emotions back down again so I could have a rational conversation.
Mason’s emotions were all over the place. If I let mine run free, chaos would’ve ensued. Or so I thought.
Now I’m wondering if I shouldn’t have just waded into the mess, let my own emotions splash all over the room too, and had it all out in the open. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t be here. Maybe if I had, we would still be together.
My face threatens to crumple, and I suck in a deep breath, forcing the thoughts and the tears that go with them down, down, down, deep into my depths where I can’t feel them right now.
I don’t want to cry in front of my mom. And I don’t want to cry right now when I’m supposed to be leaving for an interview in twenty minutes.
Some part of me can’t believe I’m going through with this interview. But it’s easier than cancelling and having to deal with the fallout from my mom. I have enough emotional fallout to navigate on my own. I don’t need her adding more to the mix right now.
I make myself some toast and coffee, largely ignoring my mom’s fussing and admonishments on how to behave at the interview, nodding along for the sake of getting along right now. Like I don’t know how to interview. I’m an adult. I’ve had several jobs since I was a teenager. I’ve always done well in interviews. I’m smart and articulate and conscientious. I have stellar references.
I could ace this interview if I felt like it.
I really don’t feel like it, though, and it shows as soon as I get called in to meet with the lead agent at the real estate firm where my mom’s friend works. The man who introduces himself as Dave shows me around the office, acquainting me with the layout, the reception desk where I’d be working, the coffee center where I’d be getting coffee for agents and clients, the drab view of office buildings that I’d be forced to look at every day if I were to take this job.
