7. Colson
SEVEN
COLSON
Sebastian: Dude, where the fuck are you?
Sebastian: You can’t just disappear off the face of the earth.
Sebastian: And totally uncool what you did to Violet.
Sebastian: She didn’t deserve that and you know it.
My phone vibrates on the bedside table, waking me from my slumber. It buzzes and rings simultaneously. It rotates in one full circle, Mom’s lamp next to it causing a glare and making it difficult to see who’s trying to contact me.
Who the hell is it this time?
After seeing the look of disappointment in Violet’s eyes, I walked out of her apartment without looking back and returned to Harrison Heights. It’s where I belong.
Fact is, someone out there will love her better than me, and when she meets that person, she’ll understand why I left. Why I couldn’t drag her down. She’s not destined to be my support system. I can’t let myself think she is; otherwise, I might actually start believing it. And if there’s one thing I’ve always been adamant about, it’s not wanting to hurt her.
My phone rings again.
I sit up and lean against the wall, finally lifting a hand to retrieve it. An exasperated groan forms inside of me but falls away just as quickly. My body is a vessel of weakness at this point. I haven’t eaten since I got here, and judging by the time on my phone, that was nearly forty hours ago.
Give or take.
I don’t really fucking know.
All I know is that it’s Sunday, according to the date on my phone, and there’s no part of me ready to get up and deal with the world.
I’d rather lie in this bed for another few days in solace. Stare at the bottle of Jack I set on the dresser across from the bed and see how close I get to twisting off the cap and guzzling the amber liquid.
I’ve come close a few times.
Mostly when my chest is so goddamn heavy from grief that it feels like my ribcage is about to crack. In those moments, I get up, sit at the edge of the bed, and waffle my options.
Do I drink, or do I suffer?
It’d be easy to pop the cap off and succumb to the depression and kickstart an addiction of my own. There’re also other options. Like picking up the bottle and smashing it against the wall out of the anger and resentment that chokes me. I can pour the fucker down the drain and find better ways to bargain with my pain. Or I can continue down my current path, which is sitting on Mom’s bed, replaying memories and wondering if there’s anything I could’ve done differently.
I always come to the same conclusion. I spent too much time worrying about Finn when I should’ve taken better care of her. Maybe I should’ve been more stern with him instead of letting him run my life these last few months. But there’s another side of that, like how I shouldn’t have let my head get caught up with a girl, and instead, should have focused on helping the one person in my life who needed it most.
It’s a vicious cycle, the regret, and because of it, I haven’t gotten much sleep. I’ve deprived myself of the bare necessities. Perhaps from lack of willpower, motivation, or maybe I’m just punishing myself for having to see Mom’s dead body on that hospital bed, a thin sheet covering her sunken cheeks and pale skin.
My stomach twists with sickness as I remember how cold her body was, how lifeless.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. It doesn’t stop the burn that stings them or the wetness that coats my cheeks seconds later. This is the ride I’m on. I break down when I least expect it. When the memories are too much. When it's as if one more breath could destroy me.
My phone stops ringing for all of five seconds before it goes off a third time. I wipe the dampness from my face with the back of my hand and look closer at my phone. Violet’s name takes up a quarter of the screen. Below is my favorite picture of her. She’s sitting on her bed in nothing but purple silk sleep bottoms and a bra, putting socks on. I had just roused her from sleep before heading to the bathroom across the hall, so her hair is messy, but her face is fresh. When I walked back into the room, I couldn’t help but snap a picture because she looked so fucking beautiful. She glanced up to see me with my phone in my hand and closed her eyes, shaking her head over how ridiculous it was, a gorgeous grin breaking out on her face.
The call ends and goes to voicemail, effectively stealing Violet from the forefront of my mind. Lucky for me, my inbox is full. I have a notification at the top of my screen that tells me so. I have no desire to empty it or listen to the messages that have been left. I don’t want to hear her voice. I don’t want to cave to what I feel for her, not when I’m at my ugliest, and it’s only going to get worse.
I’ve had this nagging in my gut—call it intuition or paranoia from my lack of sleep—that keeps telling me that this isn’t the main event. I don’t want Violet to be around when more shit hits the fan.
I place my phone back on the nightstand and pick up the cup of water sitting next to random shit Mom has on her nightstand. Tissues, incense, two lighters, a pile of papers with random words scribbled on them. I grab one of the papers and run my finger over her handwriting. It’s a mess and clear that she scrawled it down in a haste. I can’t make out what it says, but it doesn’t matter. Just seeing it makes my heart swell with something I can’t quite name. Love? Emptiness? Despair?
All of it is too fucking debilitating.
Who the hell knew she'd send me on a whirlwind when she finally decided to kick the bucket.
I toss the paper back with the rest of them. A moment later, a ruckus sounds from somewhere else in the house. I can’t pinpoint where it comes from but know it’s not normal. I’m pissed I have to get up to figure out what it is.
My body is a bag of bricks as I pad across Mom’s bedroom floor, the carpet long since worn and offering zero comfort to the heels of my feet. The morning sun is nearly blinding in the kitchen, streaming in through the window above the sink and the one in the living room.
A fist pounds against the front door. It steals my attention immediately. Without looking out the window to see who the hell is bothering me, I swing open the door. One of the last people I want to see stares back at me.
Sebastian.
I slam it closed and turn on my heel, my head already back in bed playing tug of war with the bottle of Jack Daniel’s that I dropped nearly fifty bucks on.
Much to my chagrin, the door opens behind me a second later.
“Go home,” is what I call out over my shoulder as I enter the kitchen. I open one of the cabinets and find a pack of crackers. It’s not paired with its box, so I have no idea if they’re expired. I rip the plastic away and reluctantly pop one into my mouth. It’s stale. I toss the rest of the pack on the counter, knowing I won’t be eating another.
Sebastian stands at the opening of the kitchen, his expression pulled taut. One glance at him, and I drop my gaze. I don’t want to see the pity in his eyes.
“People are trying to get ahold of you.”
“I don’t want to be contacted.”
He plants his hands on his hips, and it’s fucking weird. Mostly because I can’t remember a time he’s been in this house. When we were kids, he was never allowed inside.
“You can’t hole yourself up here,” he tells me, but oh, I can. I have since I fucked Violet for the last time and left her. “I know what you’re going through is fucking hard?—”
“No, Seb, you don’t know . You’ve been sheltered your whole goddamn life. Given whatever you’ve wanted and needed. Had the support people would literally kill for. You don’t get to walk in here and tell me anything about what I’m going through.”
He rolls his lips into his mouth. His jaw ticks. “All I have to do is look at your face and see you’re not okay. Jesus Christ, when was the last time you showered? I can smell you from across the room.”
I cross my arms over my chest and square my shoulders. “No one asked you to come.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
I look out the kitchen window. I don’t need this bullshit. I don’t need Sebastian storming in here like a fairy fucking godmother with the promise of having the magic potion to heal all.
“Mom sent me.”
“Yeah, well, tell Aunt Bess you didn’t see me,” I tell him.
“Do you hear yourself? I’m not gonna do that.”
“Then don’t. But you still need to go.”
“I’d be a piece of shit if I left right now.”
I lift my chin and stare him down. “Who says you’re not one already?”
It’s a low blow, one I feel in my stomach as hurt crosses my cousin’s face. He doesn’t deserve this. Doesn’t deserve how awful I’m being. This is part of the reason I’m pushing Violet into the past. Because I know how much of an asshole I can be, and I don’t need her seeing that. I don’t want to be the one responsible for ripping her heart out of her chest and stomping on it like a pile of dead leaves on fire.
“I’m sorry she’s gone, man. But you don’t need to take a thousand steps back because of it. You don’t have to be that angry teenager again.”
Yes, I do , I want to scream.
I’ve been obliterated by Mom’s departure. Her death coils into more of me the farther I get away from saying goodbye. The complete opposite of the “time heals all wounds” phrase people cling to.
I’m pissed at the world.
At myself.
Every single person in my path.
And all the circumstances I couldn’t change.
At having a mother who was too goddamn selfish to care.
I stare at him until I can’t take it then head for her bedroom. If he doesn’t want to leave, whatever, but I’m not going to listen to his Dr. Phil bullshit.
I fall back onto Mom’s mattress and kick my feet up on her comforter. It still smells like her and the cheap brand of cigarettes she smoked like a chimney. I’m a breath away from scooting to the edge and yanking the cap off good ole Jack when Sebastian shows his face again.
Why can’t he take a hint?
I’m beginning to welcome the burn of the liquid coating my throat and the way it’ll blanket everything else I’m feeling, including the images of Mom that keep flashing through my head. I know she’s not here, but I’ve seen her in different parts of the house. Like the last time I saw her stepping out of the bathroom and trailing down the short hall. She had her toothbrush in one hand and a ciggy in the other and kept going back and forth between the two. I don’t think she cared that smoking while she was brushing her teeth totally defeated the purpose.
It’s dumb shit like that keeping me on my toes. That has me getting closer and closer to the edge of I-don’t-give-a-fuck . The biggest thing that holds me back is the nagging thought of addiction running rampant in the family. Grandpa Moore was an alcoholic. Mom, well, she was addicted to anything she could get her hands on. That’s two generations of enslavement. I don’t want to make it a third.
“Is this what you’ve been doing?” Sebastian asks, a hint of disgust in his tone that rarely comes through. I know it’s because he’s bothered by my reaction and doesn’t know what to do to get me out of my head. We’re not kids anymore, and this is a lot heavier than anything else we’ve ever faced.
I don’t have it in me to fight. I spewed what I could in the kitchen. Now, I just want to be left alone. It’s why I haven’t answered anyone’s phone calls.
He walks into the room, ignoring the trash lying around and plucks the bottle of Jack off the dresser. He twists it in his hold, eyeing the way the see-through liquid swishes and bubbles. I pay close attention to make sure he doesn’t leave with it.
He lifts it higher and looks at me. “Is this why you look like shit? You’ve been drinking?”
I glare at him. “You want to stay, Seb? Fine, but I didn’t sign up to get my ass chewed out. You don’t like what I’m doing then fucking bail. No one is making you stay and witness what you don’t want to.”
He sets the bottle back on the dresser, the label facing away instead of staring me head-on the way I like. He walks around the bed and paces.
“They moved Janie to a funeral home. Mom mentioned you saying that you didn’t want a funeral, but they can’t keep waiting. She doesn’t want to make any decisions without you. There’s also shit that has to be handled with the life insurance policy. Money that will go to the state if it isn’t claimed, and from what I hear, it’s a pretty penny, man. Enough for you to start fresh, but you need your birth certificate and social security number. Info that proves your identity so it can be passed down to you.”
Doesn’t he see that I’m neck-deep in grief? That there isn’t room for anything else. Not even a boatload of money.
Sebastian doesn’t say anything else, but he does sit down on the other side of the bed. He mirrors me, lifting his feet up on the comforter and relaxing back against the wall. For the next hour, he keeps me company. I’m grateful as hell when he takes the high road and shuts up.
Sometime later, an alarm on his phone goes off, and he wordlessly leaves the room. My breath staggers when I hear the front door shut.
It’s just Jack and me again.
Alone at last.