Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
All I could do was cry on her shoulder. Literally.
And when I told her what was killing me, when I spilled the truth about Chris, I asked her one thing.
How can I ever pretend to go on?
That’s what I’m still wondering now, riding to this ridiculous treatment center against my will. When Evie started pushing Dad to have me shipped off to a facility a couple weeks ago, at first he put up a fight.
Then he showed up this morning, pushing into my room and pleading for me to come down to breakfast.
Just like I have so many times lately, I refused.
The pale, tired look on his face told me he’d made up his mind. I stopped giving him excuses a while ago, too burned out to even lie.
I keep thinking that one day something will just click in my head.
Maybe I’ll just wake up and feel well enough to go through the motions, leave the house, and summon the energy to finish my last semester and get on with my shadow of a life.
Somehow, I won’t feel sick to death anymore.
I’ll only wonder if Chris will ever come home alive every other waking moment.
And the nightmares where I see him beaten, bruised, crunched up in this dark, dingy cell will just go away.
Yeah, who am I kidding?
I’m so alone.
Lost.
Lovesick.
“We’re almost there,” Dad says softly, looking back at me in the mirror again. “Just try it out for a few days. They’ll help you feel better, honey, if you give them an honest chance. I’ll be back Friday to see how you’re doing.”
Evie snorts next to him from the passenger seat.
“Oh, back off the girl, Bruce. She’s just heartsick. She hasn’t reverted back to the crib.” Evie looks up at him from filing her nails.
There’s a steady rain falling on the hills, spattering the entire metro area. It already has that familiar bite of fall coolness. I stare out the window, wondering if it’s a fraction as dismal as the cold distant place where Chris is being kept.
The drumming rain merges with the scratch of Evie’s nails.
A rough, grating sound. Like my whole world ripping in two, plunging me into an empty grey pit I don’t know how to escape.
The next few miles stretch on in silence, the streets weirdly empty today.
“But you’d still say the program helped, wouldn’t you?” Dad asks quietly when we’re at a stoplight.
“Huh?” She looks up. “Oh, of course. I’m sitting here, perfectly dried out and sober, helping you with—with this, aren’t I?”
Dad nods woodenly.
I can only stand to look at Evie’s outline for a second, noticing how sour she looks.
“What’s with you today?” she asks. “God, you two act like we’re going to a funeral! Don’t you see this is what it takes? Back in my program, they said nothing good happens without work. Well, family takes work too. A year from now, I think we’ll all agree it’s worth it.”
And what if this family has a gaping Chris-shaped hole that can never be filled?
I bite my tongue to keep from lashing out at her.
“You’ve certainly been adamant about making hard choices,” Dad says quietly.
“Someone has to, Bruce. I know this isn’t easy for you—for anyone—but you know I’ll do what it takes to make things right. Anything.”
“Anything,” Dad repeats weakly. “Right.”
The conversation fades as I look up and see the clinic looming large in the distance.
It’s one of those old-school places funded by rich donors fifty years ago and still decked out in these incredible gardens hiding a sleek white stone castle behind its walls.
It’s a reputation that needs no dressing up.
Celebrities and business moguls go here to find their way back to sanity.
I can’t say Dad hasn’t always offered me the best in everything, even when he’s twisting my arm.
I stare at it through the window glumly, wondering how I’ll actually feel once I’m stuck inside, knowing I can’t leave. A cage decked in gold and ivory is still a cage.
My stomach knots up.
The only thing I’m sure about is that it can’t be worse than wherever they’re holding Chris. I only have to worry about endless doctors pestering me.
Not being beaten within an inch of my life.
This place is another kind of torture, even if it can’t hold a candle to the horrors he’s suffering.
The worst part is, I know he still thinks of me.
If he could see what I’ve been reduced to, where I’m going, instead of finishing school...
I bite my lip to hold back the emotional overload.
Jesus Christ.
While I’m selfishly worried about ruining my education, they’re ruining him in all the most vicious ways.
That’s why I won’t give up on him.
I can’t.
If a whole army of MDs tries to tell me I’m just infatuated and I can’t possibly have a relationship with my stepbrother, they’ll waste their words like arrows shot at the moon.