The tabloid.
The booze and the pills.
Fuck...the pills. How many did I take? Did I pop a couple of benzos too?
Harlow. The fight with Harlow.
Holy fuck. I am a goddamn idiot.
My mother must see it play out on my face, the whole story of how I screwed up my life. My game face is shit with whatever the doctors have me on. I take a moment, close my eyes, and draw in a deep breath.
“Why, darling?” she asks, tears welling clear pools in her eyes as she clasps my hand.
I can’t tell her it’s because of him. She is frail enough, and I’m pretty sure that would be the final blow to fracture her in two. I shrug and although her lips are turned down into moue, I watch as she nods and allows herself to buy it. Sometimes the lies we tell ourselves are more agreeable than the truth.
“It won’t happen again, Mom,” I add, guilt gnawing away at my insides. “I’m sorry.”
Her bottom lip trembles as her thumb rubs circles along my wrist. “You scared us, Ian. I thought...”
A tear slides down her cheek, and it’s like a punch straight to my gut. I feel like the world’s worst son.
I reach over and hold her hand in both of mine, willing her to look at me.
“It won’t happen again,” I say when she finally raises her gaze. “Never again.”
She nods and sniffles, drawing a handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbing at her eyes.
“Do you need to go to,” she can’t even bring herself to say the word, “to...a facility? For help? It’s not a bad thing, Ian, to need help every once in a while.”
You NEVER ask for help.
I shake my head. “It’s not like that, Mom. I just had a bad day. I made a bad decision.”
She nods. She’s obviously having a hard time swallowing this pill, but I know self-pity will win out in the end. It always does.
She surprises me with, “The girl, your girlfriend, did she buy or bring...?” I love my mother, but she can’t possibly pretend ignorance of how drug deals work. She has enough Valium in her cabinet to medicate half the continent.
“No.” I shut the line of questioning down quickly, my tone sharp. She grimaces, and I soften my next words. “Harlow has nothing to do with it. Where is she?" I add, panic starting to creep into my bones. “Where’s Harlow?”
I probably should ask about my father, but honestly, I don’t give a shit.
Mother bites her bottom lip and shakes her head. It feels like I am trying to stand but a boulder has landed on my chest. I deflate like one of those tall, inflatable men used by car dealerships the world over.
“She went home.” My mother probably thinks Harlow’s weak, that she fled because she couldn’t handle it, but I know the truth, and it stabs me like an iron poker straight through the heart. She’s cutting away the dead weight. “Give her time. She found you. I don’t know what we would’ve done if…”
Mom begins to cry, hiccuping softly.
“Mom,” I grab hold of her hand again. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”
But the truth is I’m not okay, no matter how many lies I tell.
I am a shitty son, a shitty friend, and a shitty boyfriend. As I sit in my hospital bed, wallowing in my own stench, all I can think about is Harlow and how I will do anything to win her back.
— Harlow —
I sit in my room, our dog Daisy curled against my feet. The heater hums in the corner. I have a book open in my lap, but the words swim on the page. I read the first paragraph three times before I give up.
My mind is elsewhere. I am exhausted and a little jet-lagged. I am so tired it hurts. Everything hurts.
I want to curl into a ball and sleep for an eternity. I want to hide under my comforter and try to not think about the beautiful boy with inky hair and irises of molten silver who stole my heart. I want to be a normal girl with normal problems.
What I want doesn’t matter though. My mind may be numb, but it’s never quiet. I couldn’t sleep even if I tried because Ian is a specter who haunts my thoughts, and I am a girl unable to move on, move away, from his shadow. My broken brain doesn’t remember how to be normal and doesn’t care to try.
Mom and Dad were surprised when I called and said I wanted to come home, doing my best to not let them hear the tremble in my voice. Before William, they might have shown me mercy and let me get away without giving an explanation, but it’s just a matter of time before they ask questions. Now, everything has to be accounted for, though I can’t blame them. I won’t blame them. I’m all they have left, and there’s already enough blame to go around. The walls of our home bulge with it. Our knees nearly buckle with its weight.
A knock comes from my door, and a moment later, my mom, carrying a steaming cup in her hands, walks inside. My dad is behind her, carrying two more. My throat squeezes at the thought of their impending questions, and I eye the pill bottle on my nightstand with disgust. I don’t want to think about pills.
“Hi, honey,” my mom says, taking a seat beside me as my father hands me a cup of hot chocolate.
“Hey,” I say. Can they tell I’ve been crying? Probably.
“Sweetie,” my mother begins, biting her lip, “you know you can tell us anything. Is everything all right? What happened between you and your,” she struggles with the word, not wanting to define things I have not given a definition to, “friend? Your father and I are worried about you.”
My bottom lip trembles. I am
