Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Mercer
I’m back in Noah’s truck.
Back and broken and emptier than I’ve ever been.
Instinctively, I dig my nails into the thick fabric protecting my upper thighs.
A deep ache takes root in my nailbeds, but it’s not the pain I crave.
The pain I fucking deserve.
The desire to self-harm rages through my bloodstream, surging with every beat of my heart. It’s a life force: a pulsating need.
“Hey.”
I startle, the single word uttered by my best friend pulling me out of my head and freeing me from the intrusive thoughts.
He’s too close.
He’s on the wrong side.
We’re stopped, I realize. We’re at the orchard, parked behind the storefront.
Noah hovers in the open frame on my side of the truck, his brows pulled low.
“Merce…”
He looms closer, lifting my hand off my thigh.
A tingly, burning sensation dances through each of my knuckles as he gingerly guides each of my fingers to straighten.
“You need sleep,” he says softly. “And we need to get in touch with your therapist. Maybe request an emergency session?”
I open my mouth to argue, but before I can push back, he goes on.
“I’m calling my therapist, too. We have to take care of ourselves right now. That way, when she’s ready—”
A shrewd laugh escapes me. “She’ll never be ready.”
She’s gone.
I pushed her away. I went too far.
I know it in the deepest depths of my being. The truth was right there, plain on her face. It was in the way she looked at me. In the way she promised to never forgive. That vow burrowed into the marrow of all two hundred and six bones in my body and irrevocably changed everything.
“She’s never coming back.” I lob the bitter words at Noah. I want him to hurt, too.
He doesn’t understand the reality of the situation. Or maybe he can’t accept it. He’s playing into a hopeful delusion—one that only ends in prolonged pain for the both of us.
I destroyed everything, and yet he brought me back to his home. Here he stands, holding my hand tenderly, encouraging me to call my counselor and rest.
Doesn’t he get it?
“She’s not coming back,” I repeat, my voice cracking on his name.
I want him to hate me. To tell me that I ruined his fresh shot at happiness. That just like the night of the accident, when I was the one who let the car run out of gas so we were late getting home, that this is all my fault.
They would all legitimately and unequivocally be better off without me.
“Let’s get you inside,” he says calmly.
As if he hasn’t heard anything I’m saying.
As if he refuses to accept the awful reality of the situation.
I slide out of the front seat and slam the truck door shut, wishing I’d had the foresight to insert my arm or even my head into the space so I could do physical damage with the force of my anger.
I crave the pain. The quiet that comes with it.
I’m desperate to escape my thoughts and replace them with a familiar burning pain, the intensity so demanding and insistent I can’t focus on anything else.
I trudge up the familiar path, head hanging. My body feels as if it weighs a metric ton, each step I take labored. When I come to the first step leading up to the porch, I falter.
I don’t deserve to go inside.
I don’t deserve any semblance of comfort.
Not after the pain I’ve caused.
A strong hand clamps around my shoulder. “If you’re going to cut, come to me first.”
The raspy words shock me, causing my lungs to seize.
“Wash your hands thoroughly,” he says evenly. “Sanitize the blade beforehand.”
These are all harm reduction techniques. Points I emphasize every time I volunteer for Better Yet.
“Just promise you’ll come to me and tell me. I won’t stop you. I won’t try to talk you out of it. But I’ll stay with you through this, Merce. You’re not going to break a fourteen-year streak and then sit with that alone.”
Alone.
Noah doesn’t deserve to be alone.
Sawyer refused to see us. My best friend has already lost everyone else he’s ever loved, because of me. Yet I’m still here, and he’s not giving up on me.
He never has.
Tears roll down my face. The self-loathing and shame that have dominated my every thought for the last twelve hours are nudged to the side by a stronger desire.
Conviction.
I want to self-harm, but I won’t. I don’t want to give in to the darkness. I don’t want to slice through the old scars and intricate ink that represent everything I’ve survived and endured.
I want to remain faithful to myself.
Most importantly, I don’t want to let Noah down.
“I don’t want to cut, but it’s all I can think about right now.” Sniffling, I wipe the tears away with my sleeve and meet his gaze. “I don’t trust myself to not succumb. Will you help me?”
A thousand-pound sigh escapes him.
“Yeah, Merce. Of course I’ll help you.”