Lib Novel Page 118
“Okay.” Richard stared at me, eyes wide—like he hadn’t expected me to say that. I must’ve looked absolutely crazy, judging by the look on his face, but I couldn’t seem to stop shaking. Couldn’t get my thoughts in order. Couldn’t breathe.
I broke.
“My…my head hurts,” I admitted, my hands falling to my sides. “And I–I–I cut my thumb on my fucking guitar pick on accident.” It hadn’t been an accident, not really, but I wasn’t about to confess that too. “I’m a fucking chronic pessimist. I don’t know how to breathe ninety percent of the time.”
My eyes pinched shut as I sucked in a broken breath. Too tired to do anything but tell the truth. Angry, and hurt, but mostly…mostly mad at myself.
Because once again, I’d caused problems.
Once again, I’d fucked shit up.
And I didn’t have my wolf to make it better.
He could be hurt somewhere for all I knew, lost…or, or injured by the local hunters. Realistically, I knew I wasn’t being rational. That Mutt could heal faster than I could say my own name. That hunters weren’t allowed to hurt wolves unprovoked—but that didn’t stop my head from reliving the nightmares I’d survived, and replacing the creatures I’d killed with Mutt.
“Mutt isn’t here—and I thought he would be. Avery got bird shit on his head, and I was gonna tell him about it, but now I can’t.” My chin wobbled. “He’s not answering my texts. And I’m worried, and mad at myself for being worried, because I know I’m being paranoid but I can’t fucking stop.” I could hardly breathe. My chin wouldn’t stop moving, and it was making me irrationally angry—but that was a distant, far-off emotion.
Because once I started talking…I couldn’t seem to stop.
Words spilled free.
A whole torrent of awful, mushy truths. Like sludge and muck. The truths that had clogged my system for years, along with ones I’d just collected. It should’ve felt good. It should’ve.
But at that moment, it only hurt.
My cracks had finally snapped.
“What if something’s wrong? I mean… I don’t know enough about werewolves. I keep telling myself to stop freaking out, but that doesn’t help. I keep replaying my stupid therapist’s advice in my head, but that’s not helping either?—”
Focus on the positive, Jeffrey.
“And I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him, which is terrifying—” It really fucking was. The most terrifying thing I’ve ever experienced. “And how am I even supposed to know if I’m in love when all of this is new? I’ve never even been with a dude. I’ve never had real feelings for someone in general. So I’m like, the least qualified person ever to say they love someone.”
And wasn’t that just the icing on the shit-cake?
“Plus! Blair doesn’t know about him—and I can’t tell him, because I don’t know how to talk to him anymore. He’s like all at peace or whatever, living his best gay life with you and your fucking cat and your life-sized Dracula cardboard cutouts. And I’m happy for him—of course I am, because no one deserves happiness more than him—but I resent him too. Because he’s moved on, and I haven’t, and it’s not fucking fair. We were supposed to move on together but I can’t—and I’m stuck. And everything is fucking spinning all the time, and no one notices I’m drowning—or they do and look at me like I’m a basket case—like you are right now.”
The words kept coming.
Things I hadn’t meant to say spilling free, the drain unclogging.
“But I can’t even be mad because it’s my fault. It’s all my fault anyway—all of this is. I made this mess. I fucking made it. I left. I tore our family apart. I abandoned you. I got Blair kidnapped. Every time Lydia hurt him it was because of me. Because I was a coward. Because I am so inherently fucked in the head that I thought a monster could love me.
“I owe everyone a big ass apology, you especially. I’m a shit brother. I yelled at you—because I’m stupid—and instead of thinking you were doing something nice for me, I immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion. My truck was missing—and I got scared that Lydia was fucking with me. And then she wasn’t—and it turns out it was just you. Being perfect. As per fucking usual.”
Richard stared at me.
He stared and stared and stared.
“And I’m so fucking mad at you. Because you’re nice to me. And I don’t get it.” I sucked in a ragged breath. “I don’t. Get. It. I don’t. I don’t-I don’t-I don’t. How can you be nice to me after what I’ve done? How can any of you welcome me back at all? How can Blair forgive me? When everything shitty that’s ever happened to him is my fault.”
I fell to my knees, the carpet biting into them as I whined, low and hurt. Blood dripped down my finger from the jagged cut I’d made. My bruises should’ve ached, but they didn’t. Because my heart hurt more. This gaping, awful hole. Empty and hollow and aching. “It’s my fault, it’s my fault, it’s my fault.”
I couldn’t breathe?—
It’s my fault—It’s my fault—It’s my?—
Drowning, drowning, drowning.