Page 158 of I’m The Worst

“What? That’s basically what this is.”

His expression tightens immediately. Because we both know I’m not wrong.

“David’s not a bad guy.”

I bark out another laugh and take another drink. “You sound just like Dad.”

“I’m trying to be realistic.”

“Well, stop.”

Gage goes quiet for a second, jaw flexing slightly while he studies me. “You’ve been acting different since you came back.”

My stomach twists instantly. Different. That’s one word for it.

“You mean fucked up?” I mutter.

His face softens immediately. “AJ…”

I look away before I have to see pity in his eyes too.

I’m so fucking sick of people looking at me like I’m fragile now. That I might crack open if somebody says the wrong thing too loudly. Like I’m some shattered little thing everyone has to handle with care.

Meanwhile, half the Servants I know spend every weekend blackout drunk, coked out at clubs, being fucked by whoever, and waking up in penthouses they don’t remember getting to.

Nobody sends them to doctors.

Nobody watches them every second.

Nobody lowers their voice around them like they’re terminally ill.

I gulp down another long drink from the vodka bottle. “I’ll go to the next fitting. And the one after that. And the stupid charity dinner. And whatever other perfect little Commander-fiancée bullshit Dad wants.”

The vodka hits harder this time, heat spreading down my throat and into the hollow ache eating my chest. Because honestly…it doesn’t matter anymore. A part of me died in Russia. And I’ll never be able to get her back.

Now I just go to appointments so everyone stops hovering. I tell the doctors what they want to hear:

Sleep’s getting better

Less panic attacks.

Less nightmares.

Eating more.

Healing.

Progress.

Lie after lie after lie.

I still sleep under my bed half the time because somehow the small space feels safer. I can’t leave the house sober most days. The second too many people get too close, my chest tightens until I can’t breathe. Every laugh grates on my nerves. Every man feels too big and threatening.

Being numb is easier than feeling terrified all the time. And I keep fucking because, for a few minutes, it shuts everything off. The noise. The panic. The memories.

But the second a man actually touches me, I want to escape my body.

So I get higher.