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A clear-cut answer doesn’t emerge. There’s too much hesitation. Since no answer will come this morning, I do my best to settle in and fall asleep.
“You didn’t say it back,” Justin states later after we’ve woken up and had sex. His gaze is on the ceiling and I keep mine locked there, too.
I was hoping he wouldn’t bring this up. He gets the only honest answer I have. “I’m not ready.”
Tension stifles the air for a long minute before he says, “Okay.”
Spending the day together might not be so fun unless we can break this tension.
It took three weeks for me to realize that Idaline decided to end our friendship for the time being because a letter never came and I believe Idaline wouldn’t drag out this decision. The past two weeks have been torture. That’s the only word that legitimately fits. That fucking whip hurts like a bitch and takes abuse to an entirely new level.
“What are you doing?” Lila asks, walking into our bedroom.
“Packing,” I give the most obvious answer.
“No shit,” she snaps. “Why?”
“I’m spending Christmas to New Year’s with my parents, remember?” I told her this a month ago. I’m going not only to see my parents, but because I need to get away from her before I break down completely. I had the time built up at work and after much pushing from my parents, I decided to take it.
“You never told me that! You can’t go without me and I already told my parents we would come over there.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m going to my parents’.” As if I’m on autopilot, I keep packing.
“How will it look if you show up for yet another holiday at your parents’ without me, FC? You went down there for Thanksgiving and left me behind.”
“You weren’t feeling well and didn’t want to go,” I remind her.
“And now,” she continues, “you’re going for Christmas and leaving me here. They will think something is wrong with our relationship, FC! You can’t go.”
“I’m going,” I state simply as I zip my suitcase up. I grab it and walk past her. I’m almost to the front door when I hear it. The sound comes a second before the blow. The muscles in my back clench as the bag falls from my grasp.
Lila yells, going on a rampage, but all I hear is the quiet sound before each crack of the whip. Normally, she only hits me once or twice, but she’s fucking livid and out of her mind tonight. The pain is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, easily sending tears down my face like a waterfall. Once she stops, all I hear is her saying, “Fucking leave, FC.”
My back screams and my head swims as I slowly pull myself up, grab my bag, and stand. It takes twenty minutes for me to take the walk to my car. After I manage to put my bag in the trunk, I crawl into the backseat with my face and knees against the seat. There’s no way to get comfortable or to ease the pain.
I call my dad, thankful when he answers on the third ring.
“How’s it going, FC?” he says.
“I need you to come get me. I’m fucking done, Dad. I can’t drive. Just come get me.”
“Are you okay, son?”
“No.” I choke back tears.
“I’m on my way. I’ll call you when I’m close.”
We hang up. The pain seems to intensify with every breath. The thirst for alcohol that I fight every day is as impossible to ignore as the unbearable pain. It takes ten minutes before I officially can’t take it anymore. I slowly get out of the car, nearly faint as I pull on a jacket, and begin my walk across the street to the liquor store.
It’s the longest, most painful walk of my life. But the moment I step out of the store to head back to my car and take a long pull from the tequila, I swear my pain alleviates a bit. The jacket comes off before I get back into my car. I drink the tequila like it’s water and I’ve been dehydrated for months. I don’t know if it’s the pain or the alcohol, but thankfully, I pass out.
“Oh, my baby boy.” The soft words pierce my eardrums, causing me to groan, which leads to a treacherous ripple effect. My stiff back screams in protest at the smallest movement and my stomach rolls. But a hand runs through my hair and I smell my nana’s soft perfume.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I mutter.
“Your mother insisted on coming to drive the car back and I thought you might could use some of Nana’s love. But if you puke on me, I’m leaving you out of my will.”
I chuckle, but immediately regret it. My hands tighten around something as we hit a bump and tears fall once more. I’ve relapsed. Again. No wonder Nana’s worried about me throwing up. I feel worse than I did when I left the apartment and I didn’t realize that was possible.
