“Get your ass up!”
“Dammit Rae, that’s bright!” I have to shield my eyes as she opens the curtains.
“It’s called the Sun. Get some. You’ve got to get to the office today because the group from Hope will be here Friday, and I’m sure you’ll want to make yourself scarce.” Her condescension claws at me.
“I fund the place. So do you. We don’t have to be anywhere.”
God, could I sound more petulant?
Without responding, she rips the covers from the bed and throws some clothes on top of me. As I swing my legs to the side of the bed, she focuses on something behind me. Rae reaches her hand behind my pillow, producing the nearly empty bottle of Jack.
“Nice.” She stares through me and my heart bleeds through a Rachel-sized hole.
“You know, Bo,” she continues, “this is why I’m not around a lot.” The tawny liquid sloshes against the sides of the bottle as she gestures with her hands.
She’s right. She’s right and it kills me. I hardly feel bad, though—I’m not sober enough for that. I dig my elbows into my knees and tear my fingers over my scalp. When I lift my head, she’s gone. I hear the shower running and a headache forms at the thought of having to be upright.
“Get a shower, get coffee, eat, and get your ass to the office. She’s gone, Bo, and I assure you Jack Daniels won’t campaign for you to get her back—if that’s even what you want.”
“What the hell do you mean if that’s what I want? She’s all I want.” I stand too quickly, and Jack’s fists force my eyelids closed.
“So she’s ignoring your calls—what’s stopped you from driving like a maniac to Barnstable and looking her in the eyes? You’re just wallowing here in a sea of pity when she’s the one who got hurt, Bowan. She’s probably confused and scared.” Rae sighs and throws her hands up in disgust. “You’re so completely clueless, it’s painful to watch. I liked her. I like her, and I haven’t been able to talk to her because you’re an asshole.”
Rae’s never spoken to me this way, and the shock is quickly tackled by my own anger. She sees the internal shift and heads for my bedroom door.
“What do you mean she’ll be here Friday?” My heart races with panic and a dash of hope.
“She didn’t run away from Hope on your account, she’s finishing what she started. Now, I’ll see her Friday. What am I supposed to tell her? ‘Hey Ember, my brother is a dickless coward who plans on drinking his transgressions away, but wanna get lunch?’”
Rae must see a thousand thoughts cross my face, because she shakes her head and leans against my doorframe for a second. “Get in the shower” is all she says before dramatically gonging the inside of my head with a slam of the door.
I wipe off the mirror when I step out of the shower. God, I look like shit. Something catches my eye on the floor. A bottle of lotion has fallen behind the toilet, but I don’t recognize it until I smell it; then fresh wounds mar my insides. I stare at myself in the mirror, searching for some sort of resemblance to the man I thought I was and the man my parents raised me to be. Instead, a hung over, brokenhearted liar scoffs back.
“I couldn’t have fucked that up more if I tried.”
“You’ve got that right.” Rachel unapologetically enters my bedroom again.
She’s more pissed than hurt about the blackmail. We’re working on a plea deal, and Rae demanded that our lawyer negotiate Max and Bill’s mandatory presence at the meetings so she could tear them apart. She’s mostly angry that I hid it from her.
My sigh fills the bathroom as I hang my head. “Rae ...”
“Well Jesus, Bowan! Every single piece of this could have been avoided if you hadn’t taken it upon yourself to try to teach those fuckers a lesson!” Tired tears crawl down her face as she continues, “I really do appreciate what you put yourself through to protect me. I do. But, quite frankly, I might have been less embarrassed if they’d just posted those pictures. Instead, my big brother thinks I’m a spineless child who needs protecting.” Her accusations bounce off the frigid tile.
There’s nothing I can say to her. She’s right. Again.
She takes a breath and looks between the lotion and me twice before stepping over the threshold to the bathroom. She carefully removes it from my hands and studies the label.
“Hmm, lemongrass and cardamom,” she inhales the scent, “this has November written all over it. Did you just find this, or did you get all psycho and buy her lotion for your own emotional cutting?”
“She left it here, I guess.” I brush past her and head to my closet.
“You don’t like it when I say her name, huh?”
“What’s the point? It was a week and a half of my life and she’s made it quite clear that it’s over.” My tone is short. My hangovers have started to dress themselves up in anger.