Page 87 of Before You Fell

“That’s the only reason you called.”

Her silence lingers just enough to make me seem like the bastard. She’s always been good at that. My mother can put guilt in a room without raising her voice, then stand there looking wounded until I hand her whatever she came for.

“Five thousand,” she says softly.

I laugh. “Of course.”

“Phoenix.”

“I’ll send it.”

“You don’t have to be cruel.”

“I said I’ll send it.”

“I just wanted to talk to you.”

“No,” I say, downing the whisky. “You wanted money. It’s fine. At least be honest about it.”

“We raised you.”

There it is. The little reminder. As if love were ever free in that house. As if every shitty dinner, every slammed door, every night I lay awake listening to them fight, became a debt the second my voice started making some money.

I pour more whisky into the glass because some wounds need something to burn them.

“I don’t know why I call when you’re in these moods,” she says.

“I’ll transfer it tonight.”

I hate how quickly I cave. Hate that one sentence from her can still reach the boy who used to wait around for her to love him.

Her voice warms instantly. “Thank you. You’ve always been a good boy, Phoenix. Good night.”

Before I can say anything more, she disconnects the call.

One drink becomes two. Two becomes fuck it.

I lean forward, grab the blunt off the marble table, and flick the lighter until the end catches. Smoke fills my lungs and I hold it there because apparently breathing only works when I’m choking on something.

The whisky burns. The weed hits. Neither of them do enough.

So I chase both harder.

Another pull from the blunt. Another mouthful of whisky. I let my head fall back against the couch and stare at the city glittering outside the windows.

I don’t want to think. In fact, I don’t want to feel one more goddamn thing sitting inside my chest with Willow’s name on it.

So I drink and smoke until my body gets heavy and useless. And when that still doesn’t shut me up inside my own head, I do what I do best. I ruin myself a little more.

Chapter Fifteen

Willow

Iwake up on the couch in the afternoon, still in last night’s dress, with one heel digging into my calf and a hangover trying to chew its way out of my skull.

Classy.

For a few seconds, I don’t move. My head pounds hard enough to have its own drum solo. My stomach hurts and I press one hand against it while I stare at the ceiling, waiting to see if I’m going to throw up, pass out again, or simply lie here regretting every choice I have made up to this point in my life.