Chapter Forty-Three
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
BONNIE
A vodka tonic stares at me from a curved glass, a curl of lemon teetering on the rim. I bite my tongue and stare, my knee jerking up and down as the enclosing seconds go by. The drink straw creases beneath my thumbnail.
One. Two. Three. Four.
One sip won’t hurt you.
One sip can be forgotten about.
It’ll just be a slip. It’s no worse than yelling at your friends, at your mother, at your stalker.
You’re a fucking fool.
You don’t deserve to have the strength to say no to this.
You’re weak. Worthless.
That’s why they targeted you. They knew it, and you should know it, too.
I should have died three times by now.
First with Kelsey. Second on Halloween. And third at Radio Eleven.
She shouldn’t have saved you on Halloween.
She should have let me rot in a ditch after they were done with me. It should have been my body they found after. Maybe then, this pain wouldn’t be getting to my head. Then, I’d be with my mom, not living with the regrets of things I never said to her—things I did say to her when I shouldn’t have.
I wouldn’t be living with the fact that I just shoved away the person who took me to a rehab facility to get clean.
God, what is wrong with me?
Reed’s fist bangs on the door so hard I’m surprised the thing doesn’t cave beneath the weight.
“Bon?”
I barely react as he twists the knob, and I’m grateful when he doesn’t barge in like someone ready to take on the world and save me from all the bad and ugly things haunting my mind.
Because he’s Reed.
He pauses in the door, his throat bobbing as he stares between the drink on the counter and me sitting on the stool at the bar.
“Hey,” he finally says.
It’s a simple word, and it staggers between us as he drops his duffle bag on the ground and locks the deadbolt behind him. I eye the paper bag in his arm but don’t ask about it as he treads to the island block.
The moment the paper bag hits the counter, he begins moving around my kitchen as if it’s his own. I barely register him taking ingredients and pans out, and once he seems organized, he opens the cabinet door, grabs a short glass, fills it with water from the fridge, then slides it even with the vodka as if presenting a choice.
I stare between them for a beat.
It’d be easy to switch the lemon when he isn’t looking, to tear into that drink and quiet my mind.
It’s tempting. So fucking tempting .
I could numb this pain and forget about it for a while. I could slow down the racing thoughts, the bodily pain, and the dread swirling through my veins.
Still, I know it would only last a few hours, I’d have to keep feeding the beast to keep it all at bay.
I reach for the water with trembling fingers. A tear falls from my eye when the cool liquid hits my lips, a breath of relief leaving me. The water swishes in my mouth, seeming to wipe away the taste of blood, its coolness drenching my raw throat.
Reed watches me gulp the water, then fills it up again when I’m done.
And as I sit there watching Reed take out ingredients, all I can think about is the one person I wish to hell I could call.
“I miss her,” I say, fumbling with my cup. “My mom.”
Reed cracks a few eggs into a bowl. “You never really mention her.”
“Are you making your hangover French toast?” I ask him as I see the block of brioche bread.
He smiles through his shaggy hair. “Yeah. You always liked it,” he replies, whisking his eggs. “What do you miss about your mom?”
I sigh and rest my cheek on my fist, then grab the fidget pop toy he brought and begin pressing in the circles with my other hand. “I miss being able to tell her that she worries too much,” I say. “I miss being able to call and tell her I’m sorry. Growing up, she protected me from so much pain, but at the same time, she let me experience it, you know? I miss being able to tell her things and not getting judged for it or telling her something that happened and her not thinking she has to jump into action to fix it. I miss her just being there.”
“Do you want to call my mom?” he asks, cutting into the center of the bread. “You know she loves you. She’d do all those things, especially the letting you figure it out on your own part. Can’t even count how many times I told her things and she was just like ‘Okay, what are you going to do about it?’”
I huff. “It’s a thought, definitely,” I say. “Maybe later?”
His smile broadens, and he nods. “Definitely later.”
I take another sip of my water. “So… what’s the latest with your Summerween Music Fest idea?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t mind me avoiding why he’s here.
Although judging by the look he gives me, he knows I’m deflecting.
“That’s what you want to talk about?” he asks.
“For now.” I push the vodka drink away and point to the second airplane bottle atop the fridge. “Pour those down the drain for me?”
He nods and gets rid of them without any comment.
“So I have a meeting with Heartless next week,” he says about the festival. “Apparently there are a lot of logistics.”
“I mean, yeah. You’ve seen what happens when people put shit together on a whim.” I make an explosion noise with my mouth, and he chuckles.
“Yeah, I guess. That was why they wanted to plan early. Venue shouldn’t be a huge issue if we go with one already set up to handle that kind of crowd.”
“It’s scheduled for next July, right?” I ask.
He nods. “We have ten months to get it together.” He begins cutting a couple of bananas into circles, then coating them with a little lemon and sugar, and as he’s mixing, he says, “So… do you want to talk about it?”
I drink more water. “You didn’t happen to bring soda, did you?”
Reaching into the bag, he brings out a pack of orange cans. I take one from the plastic casing and pour it into my empty cup.
“I’ve been fucking my stalker,” I say.
Reed drops his spoon into the bowl.
Still, he doesn’t reply. He just looks at me with a confused expression, and I let the information settle within him as the soda fizz dies down in my cup.
“You think I’m crazy,” I eventually say.
For a moment longer, he doesn’t speak, and I know he’s trying to figure it out, just as any person might.
“Why are you telling me?” he eventually asks.
I toy with my hands for a beat. “Had I told Zeb, he would have asked if I’d been drugged or worse, if it wasn’t consensual. Darcy would have said I was sabotaging myself. And Andi… she has enough going on without me adding to it.”
“I’m your fourth choice,” he says. “That’s cool. I’m cool with that,” he adds, and I chuckle at the smile on his face. He begins stuffing the large blocks of brioche, this time avoiding my eyes.
“So… were you…” he asks hesitantly.
“Coerced? No. No, it was nothing like…” I bristle at the visions and memories that led me to this point. “No. She didn’t hurt me.”
“Did she let you see her?” he asks.
“No, I was blindfolded,” I reply.
“Kinky,” he teases, and I shove him slightly, making him laugh.
“You know I’m not going to judge you for enjoying the thrill, Bon,” he goes on.
“Would it be completely crazy if I liked it?” I ask, considering the thought.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…” I run my hands through my messy hair. “God, this sounds fucking stupid.”
“Come on. I like to think you and I can share the crazy, fucked up parts of us,” he says, beaming at me.
He’s right.
We’ve always shared that feeling together, and I know I can trust him because he’s seen me sitting on the floor begging for a drink more than once, and he’s sat with me until I figured it out.
“So, what? It’s happened a few times?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I admit. “The first time… it was at that DeathFest masquerade party. I didn’t know who she was. The second time… It went further than I should have let it. The third time—”
“There was a third time?” he asks, brows raised. “Aren’t you also fucking Gemma?”
“Wait, one thing at a time,” I say before he gets me sidetracked.
“Okay, okay. So, the third time…” He peers at me expectantly, and I huff amusedly before going on.
“The third time, I actually said Gemma’s name in the middle of it—”
“Oh shit.”
“Yeah, oh shit,” I agree. “And then, tonight…” My voice trails as I remember yelling.
“What about tonight?”
“Tonight, I was mad,” I admit. “Tonight, I wouldn’t let her touch me. I think I felt betrayed? Like all this time, she’s reminded me that she’s saved me multiple times over, she’s rescued me from bad men and shit situations, always promising that she was the only person who could keep me safe… and then she wasn’t there. It was as if I had grown a dependency on her when that was the worst thing I could have done.”
Reed begins slowly dredging his toast.
“And then, I just… I yelled at her. I lost it. I said she was the reason my life was as fucked up as it is, that her coming back into my life was the reason those guys are suddenly looking for me again—”
His brows narrow as if he wants to question it, and my shoulders droop when I realize.
“Oh… I never told any of you about that.”
He sets his toasts onto a plate, and instead of continuing what he’s doing, he drags one of the stools around his side of the bar, sits down, and pops a top on another orange soda.
And he doesn’t speak.
I love Reed.
His relationship with his wife has only made him more patient, too.
So, I tell him.
I tell him everything.
I tell him what I remember about that Halloween night. I tell him about my stalker staying with me the day after, then driving me to the rehab clinic. I tell him the truth about the fingernails and the note that was with them. The phone calls. About Gemma. About the attack and how it was connected to the guys who assaulted me the first time.
And as I wrap up, I have to lean over and swipe a tear from his eyes. He stayed silent the entire story, and while I’m pretty sure he’s ready to hurt whoever hurt me, he isn’t getting mad that it took this long for me to tell him.
However, he does stand up, and when he wraps his arms around me for a big, Matthews hug, my own tears fall down my face.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that alone,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, Bonnie.”
I pull back and pat his face. “I wasn’t alone. I had you guys. I had the music.”
He gives me a doubtful look, and I shake my head. “Reed, just because I didn’t tell you what I was directly dealing with doesn’t mean you didn’t matter,” I say. “You guys are my family. I love you assholes. I wouldn’t have made it these last five years if I didn’t have you. And what we do together… the touring, the fun, the fucking music? What we do is so fucking healing… I can’t imagine going through life without you.”
Reed gives me a smacking kiss on my forehead and gestures for my hands. “Get up.”
I eye him. “Already?” I ask, knowing what he wants.
“Yep. Already,” he says.
I stand, and he taps a few times on his phone, pulling up a music list we’ve listened to before.
It’s a ritual he and I have done in the past when things felt like too much for me. His solution to move and scream and belt out the lyrics to the emo music we grew up singing along with in our rooms.
The music is nostalgic, cathartic… it’s the pain we went through as teens, the memories that made us who we are—for better or worse. Some, completely fucked up. Still, when we think about these songs… they were a brief moment when the world didn’t feel so fucking cold.
And it’s still true to this day.
It might have been hours that we danced and sang. It might have only been minutes. I don’t know because when you’re with the people you love, time doesn’t seem to be linear anymore.
Yet, as we danced, my mind kept drifting to Gemma, and more than once I envisioned her sitting on the couch laughing at us, and more than once… I think it was the right thing to do when I yelled at my stalker last night.
Once we’ve laughed and belted out lyrics to the point that my throat hurts, we settle back down, and Reed finishes making the toast. I’m squinting at him when he sets three plates on the counter along with syrup.
“Are you taking one home with you?” I ask as he dusts it with powdered sugar.
“Ah…” He chuckles nervously. “Actually, do you mind if Wren comes up?”
“She drove here?”
“She’s actually been napping in the car,” he says.
My eyes widen. “Reed! You made her wait in the car?!”
“I insisted she come up,” he argues. “She’s the one who thought she might interfere, and she knew it was important. I think… I think she doesn’t always know how to show it, but she was really worried about you. Like, to the point that she’s texted me five times asking if you’re okay,” he says, waving his phone in front of me.
“Please tell her to come up,” I tell him. “God, she could have slept in the bedroom while we talked.”
He smiles and settles his elbows on the counter. “I don’t know that anyone should touch that bed after all of your stories—”
I smack his arm. “Shut the hell up. Like your place isn’t just as bad.”
“The fucking worst,” he grins.
“Why did she drive you here, anyway?” I ask. “You have that big Rover.”
“You know I’m her passenger princess,” he says with a wink.
I snort. “Oh yeah, I forgot you don’t like to drive either,” I remember.
“I get too distracted behind the wheel, and her anxiety is fucking terrible when I drive, so she usually does. And she’s always extra careful,” he explains. “It works out when we actually have to take ourselves somewhere. Still, it’s better if we have someone drive us.”
I can’t help but be envious of the way he talks about her. “I’m so fucking happy you two found each other, dude,” I tell him. “Like so happy. You guys are perfect.”
He chuckles, a slight blush hitting his cheeks. “Yeah? What about you? You going to rip the mask off of your stalker?”
“I think I probably scared her away for good tonight,” I say. “And I don’t know that that’s a bad thing.”
He smiles. “Good, because I was about to tell you you’re fucking crazy if you’re not giving Gemma a real chance.”
I almost laugh. “I’m glad to know you’ve been rooting for us.”
“How could I not after hearing you two outside the trailer the other night? Jesus fuck , Bon,” he says, teasing me. He whistles, and I can’t help my growing laughter.
“I kind of thought you two were endgame after that,” he says.
A sigh leaves me as I think about earlier with Gemma. “Not yet. I’ve been working through shit in my head. And I wanted to end things with my stalker, too. It just got… complicated. Still, somehow, every time I’m around her, I just want to be with her. It’s like I can’t help it.”
“What about now? If your stalker is gone for good?”
I stare at my terribly painted fingernails and consider it.
And as I do, I feel my chest swell.
“I was pushing Gemma away because I thought it might affect my sobriety were things to go wrong,” I say, almost in a trance. “I wasn’t sure if I’d be strong enough to handle feeling that low. And then… This entire time, things have been going to absolute shit, and I…”
My gaze lifts to his, and Reed grins.
“You’re still sober,” he says.
“I’m still fucking sober,” I realize.
He takes another sip of his soda and points a finger at me. “You’re a badass, B. And if Gemma makes you feel something… You have to give that a shot. It isn’t like the universe just goes around giving that kind of intimacy to everyone.”
My lips lift higher. “Yeah. You’ve been around Mads more, haven’t you?” I ask, referring to his relationship advice.
A soft knock sounds on the door, and Reed snickers at my comment.
“You know I get poetic when I cook,” he says, heading to the door.
He opens it, his face beaming when he sees his wife standing on the threshold. Even so, Wren doesn’t look as enthusiastic.
She places one hand on the door and looks back over her shoulder a few times, and Reed frowns at her.
“What’s wrong?”
“Ah… I must be more tired than I think I am,” she says, slapping her cheeks. “I thought I saw a guy who used to hang around Damien.”
Reed immediately sticks his head out of the door and looks around.
“That’s pretty weird,” I say.
Wren steps inside and heads toward me, a solemn look on her face. “I really didn’t mean to crash, but he’s a terrible driver,” she says.
I laugh and pat the seat next to me. “Luckily, he’s a hell of a comfort cook.”
She gives him a look when he walks by and kisses the top of her head, and despite the way she rolls her eyes, I know she’s as grateful to have him in her life as I am to have him in mine.
It’s when Wren peers at me awkwardly that I tilt my head in question.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I feel like I should say something comforting,” she says, nose wrinkling. “But… I’m kind of terrible at that. So, if you want me to leave or anything—I’m really sorry if I’m interfering.”
I huff amusedly. “Nah, we’ve already danced it out. Had a long heart-to-heart. Cried a little. Talked about my girl problems.” I smile fondly at Reed, and he flicks some powdered sugar at me, making me laugh. “That’s why I call him.”
“We still have to call my mom later,” he says.
“Oh yeah, definitely,” I agree.
“Why are we calling Tina?” Wren asks.
“Because I miss my mom,” I answer, sadness laid out like an open book.
Wren agrees with a lift of her brows, and Reed smirks at her.
“You can say it,” he tells her.
She sighs and glares at him.
“What?” I ask.
Wren grabs the fidget toy I was playing with earlier. “I call her when I miss my mom, too,” she admits.
I snicker at the pink on her cheeks. “She’s the Young Decay mom,” I say.
“That she is,” Wren agrees.
Reed slides us both plates across the counter, and I smile when I look at Wren’s.
“No syrup or powdered sugar?” I ask.
“Sticky and reminds me of baby powder,” she replies, glancing at Reed. “Thank you for remembering the sugar.”
Reed grins. “Always.”