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This shit feels amazing against my face.
“Wes…?” calls out a voice from the other side of the blockade. “You in there?”
I think that’s my best friend.
And your best friend is evidently supposed to have your back even in death.
Like Clark apparently.
He knew.
He’s known.
He’s known this entire fucking time and never said a word.
Not. A. Single. Fucking. Word.
How can I ever look at him again the same?
How could he ever look at my father like he once had?
J.T. delivers two sharp knocks prior to investigating, “You alive?”
“Relatively,” reverberates off the unclean floor I’m nestled against.
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
“Has anyone been in there today?”
“No.”
“Is anyone allowed in there today?”
I shut my eyes at the same time I grunt, “No.”
“You…um…find anything new?”
“Finnegan couldn’t find the doctor who delivered Monica but found the nurse that was on duty for it at a luxury elderly home paid for by Will Cox’s Watermelons, which is a Wilcox company, which is. My. Fucking. Company.”
“Did she…have…anything to offer?”
“She claimed that she remembered them but that she couldn’t talk about it. All she could say was the same fucking shit Monica’s mother wrote. The holding of her hand. And the pushing her hair out of her face. And holding the newborn like he had his whole world in his hands.”
“W-”
“Where was his old world?” Sneering has my face scraping against the ground. “Were we skiing with his parents? Was mom having cucumber sandwiches alone with royalty? Was I falling off my fucking bike that I was learning to ride forcing his best friend to bandage up my knee?”
“W-”
“My knee! He couldn’t even help me learn to ride a bike because he was there with her!”
“W-”
“I spoke to you as a courtesy.” The small breath I suck in is a struggle. “I’m done.”
“But-”
