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I broke up with him.

Her response is instant:

Mom says you should come home. Dad wants to talk about real solutions.

Real solutions. My dad’s ideas to “fix” me. Like moving home so he can supervise me or enrolling me in military school.

I drink another mini bottle. A liquid warmth burns through me, and I’m swimming in numbness, a floating feeling that’s almost bearable.

Another buzz.

Luc, seriously. What happened? mom saw something. she’s saying things about you and Cameron

I close my eyes, and I can see it again—the shock on her face, her hand flying to her mouth, the scream that came after. Alcohol isn’t enough to drown it out.

Tell them I broke up with him

Tell them it’s over.

Okay. Sorry, Luc

Cameron is somewhere in this hotel right now, probably hating me. Despising me for being too weak to stand up to my family. Thinking I’m a coward. Which is exactly what I am.

My head is spinning now, but it’s better than the feeling in my chest. Better than the sensation of my entire life crumbling.

Tomorrow, we have a seven-hour drive back to Hayworth. Seven hours of silence while we both die inside. How am I supposed to pretend I’m not completely falling apart?

I remember the look on his face when I said we should end it. The total collapse of his features and how he jerked away from my touch.

I destroyed us when I said Thom’s name. I kept it from him, and now he knows everything. And now I know how Thom hurt him, how Thom degraded him. And I let it happen.

It doesn’t matter now.

What will happen when we get back to Hayworth? Will he pretend he doesn’t know me? Will he look through me like I don’t exist?

The thought makes my stomach turn.

Cameron will never forgive me. He’ll never even want to look at me again. I’ve lost him because I’m weak. Weak against my father’s cruelty and my mother’s shame. I caved, knowing that staying with Cameron would mean being cut off. I would lose my apartment, my tuition, everything. I’m not ready to be on my own.

I lie back on the bed fully clothed. I think about getting up, finding his room, knocking on the door. Begging him. Telling him I’ll fight my family. That I choose him. That I won’t let them win. But I just lie here, letting the alcohol pull me under.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I wake up, sunlight is streaming through the thin white curtain, my head is pounding, and my tongue is thick and bitter-tasting.

I shower quickly and pack my bag on autopilot.

My phone is silent. No messages from Cameron.

At the front desk, the woman behind the counter says, “Mr. Ashford, you have a message.”

My heart stops.

She hands me an envelope. I open it with shaking hands.

I found my own way home.

Cameron’s handwriting.

The words blur. Or maybe it’s my vision. Maybe I’m about to be sick.