“Allie—”
“You need to find a way to deal with your grief. But I can’t be there anymore to help you. I’m not going to stand by and watch you stick your head in a bottle because you’re too afraid to face the pain. I’m done.”
I storm out of the bedroom, leaving him staring after me in shock.
32
Dean
I’m awakened by a loud, agonized groan. Christ, it sounds like someone is dying, and it takes a minute to comprehend that the tortured noise had come from me. I’m groaning, because my head hurts. No, my eye hurts. Why does my eye hurt?
I sit up and gingerly touch my face. My left eye is swollen shut. And my mouth is drier than the Sahara. Shit. I’m so goddamn thirsty. And weary—just the act of lifting my hand to my face has drained me of energy.
The molly, I realize. Last time I took some, it also left me feeling drained and achy the next morning.
I slide out of bed and discover I fell asleep fully clothed. Staggering to the closet, I open the door and study the mirror behind it. Sweet Jesus. My eye is purple bordering on black, and as I study my reflection, all the events of last night come crashing back.
Missing Allie’s play.
Allie dumping me.
Garrett coming home and yelling at me. What was he yelling about… I strain to remember. Right, about missing Allie’s play. Oh, and because I’d invited half the football team over to the house and they…yup, a few of the linebackers were snorting coke in the kitchen. Fuck. That’s when Garrett pulled me aside and started railing into me. I must have said something he didn’t like, because…well, black eye.
I turn away from the mirror and sink on the edge of the bed, conducting a mental tally of what I’m dealing with right now.
I have a black eye.
I have an angry roommate who gave me the black eye.
I have an ex-girlfriend.
And I made a little girl cry.
I sat with Dakota while she cried her eyes out! She thinks you hate her because she didn’t want to wear goddamn boy skates!
Allie’s angry words blare like a trumpet in my head, making my temples throb and my stomach churn. I barely make it to the bathroom in time, gagging on the bile in my throat before I even reach the toilet. I drape myself over the porcelain bowl and dry heave for what feels like hours. I didn’t eat anything last night, so there’s nothing to throw up, but my stomach keeps twisting and clenching and I can’t stop heaving.
When the nausea finally settles, I brush my teeth at the sink, then drop to the tiled floor and sit there for a while, thinking about what I’ve done. What I’ve lost.
Allie.
Beau.
Goddamn Beau. Why the fuck did he have to go and die?
The thought is so absurd it triggers a wave of laughter. Loud and uncontrollable, until my eyes are watering and I’m hiccupping.
There’s a knock on the door. “Dean…you in there?”
I cringe at the sound of Garrett’s voice. He doesn’t sound pissed, though. Just tired.
When I open the door, I find a pair of serious gray eyes peering back at me. “You okay?” Garrett says gruffly.
I laugh again. “Not in the slightest.”
Guilt passes through his expression. “I’m sorry about the shiner.” He curses. “But goddamn it, man, you had it coming. You should see the mess those guys left. The house is trashed.”
I drag a weak hand over my scalp. “I’ll clean it. And don’t worry about the shiner. I deserved it. I’m surprised Allie didn’t give me a matching one.”
Just saying her name is brutal. It feels like someone cut my chest open with a skate and is stabbing the blade into my heart, slicing it to ribbons.
I can’t imagine how she’ll ever forgive me. I wasn’t there for her opening night. Hell, I wasn’t there for her even before that. For three weeks I’ve been walking around in a fog, doing my damnedest to try to forget that Beau is dead. Whenever he crossed my thoughts, I’d crack open another beer or roll another joint, because it was the fastest, easiest way to shut down my brain.
Allie’s dad had said he didn’t trust me to take care of her. And he was right. I can’t even take care of myself, apparently.
“Wellsy is pissed at you,” Garrett says.
“I’m pissed at myself.” I groan, still thinking about the sheer magnitude of my screw-up. “I…” My throat hurts. “I miss Maxwell.”
Garrett murmurs, “I know.”
“It wrecks me to think I won’t ever see him again.”
“I know.”
There’s a beat, and then Garrett surprises me by hauling me in for a hug. Not a macho side hug or quick chest bump, but a real hug, with both his arms around me, gripping me tight.
I hug him back. “I’m sorry, man. About the house. The drinking. Just everything.”
“I know,” he says for the third time.
A door creaks open. “Is this a private homoerotic moment? Or can anyone join in?”