Page 85 of 72 Hours of You

Fuck me.

Fuck everything.

Forty-Eight

SOMETHING WEIGHS DOWN the end of my bed. “It smells like shit in here.”

Jules.

“You smell like shit,” I mumble from under the covers.

“No I don’t. I smell like a goddess. Because I am a functioning human being who isn’t afraid of soap.”

“Whatever.” I pull the covers tighter over my head.

Jules tugs them down, the harsh afternoon light stabbing me in the eyes.

“Hey!” I yank the covers back up to my chin. “Don’t you have some rando to hook up with?”

Jules purses her lips. “I will let that extremely rude comment slide because I know you are having a menty b. But, seriously, get your shit together and stop being such a bitch.”

“I’m not a bitch,” I say. “And I’m not having a mental breakdown.” I cross my arms over the covers.

“Right,” Jules says, “I forgot. Cradling a crumpled-up origami bird while listening to some random-ass band on repeat—send me a Spotify link by the way—and not showering for three days is very normal, very sane behavior.”

“I’m not doing that.” I push the bird farther down under the sheets.

“Bullshit.”

“You’re bullshit.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you!”

“Sydney.” Jules towers over my face and honestly, she’s kind of scaring me right now. I scooch back a little. “Get the fuck out of this bed or I will set it on fire.”

“Jules, you don’t understa—”

“Fire.” And then she punches me in the leg and I try to kick her back, but I miss and she doesn’t even flinch.

“God. Fine. Whatever. I’ll take a shower.” I pull the covers off, sending a handful of stale Cheez-Its to the carpet. “Happy?”

“I will be after I open a window.” Jules smiles and I give her the finger before going into the bathroom and turning on the water. This is stupid. Standing in rain isn’t going to make me feel better. Wait. Not rain. I mean water. Fuck.

I brush my teeth, then step into the steamy shower and just stand there, those Boone Wilcox lyrics echoing in the chambers of my mind.

This year was lovesick

Disease closing in

This year was dry drowning

Knowing how to swim

Even though he doesn’t want to be around me—and really, who would want to be around the weird death girl?—I still can’t stop thinking about how Peter’s doing. Hoping he’s okay. Hoping that I didn’t mess up that beautiful mind of his with the fucked-up shit in mine. Hoping that maybe … maybe—

“ARE YOU CRYING IN THERE?”