Chapter 14
Fourteen
EMBER
M y heart is crushed. I'm shaking all over, hyperventilating too hard to even sob.
I can't think. Can't even feel—it's not numbness, it's…shock.
I drove here like a bat out of hell, ready to throw myself at Felix, ready to beg him to comfort me, to hold me, to make me feel safe again.
To soothe my grief-riddled heart.
Instead, I find a gorgeous woman in his bed. Tall, skinny, with perfect black hair and a twenty-thousand dollar Birkin bag on the foot of Felix’s bed, her French manicured fingernails flirting with his cock, her mouth on his, kissing him.
His lips that are supposed to be mine.
His cock that's supposed to be for me.
I was ready.
I wanted it.
His heart.
His love.
Rage at the unfairness of life smashes through me like a hurricane, and I feel my lungs freezing solid in my chest, and my head vises in on itself until it's three sizes too small, and my heart is pounding against my ribcage with such rabid ferocity that it's physically painful and medically worrying.
Gears grind as I try to get the shifter into first. I know I shouldn't be driving in this state, but I have to get away. I know he'll have an excuse or an explanation, and I just don't care.
" FUCK !" I scream, and then smash the steering wheel with my fists, screaming my throat raw.
I take a deep breath and hold it—finesse the shifter into first and messily lurch away from the curb.
Past the sleek black Mercedes convertible which must belong to that woman.
His ex. The one who fucked up his heart.
Well, let her repair it, then.
Fuck him.
I can't even really run away—he still has my bus.
My cell phone rings—I ignore it until it stops, only for it to start ringing again immediately. He calls six times in a row and leaves six voicemails. And then the barrage of text message alerts, coming so fast that the alert tones overlap.
I can't see through my tears. I have no idea where I'm going. I'm not even sure I'm on a road. I shouldn't be driving, but I can't risk letting Felix catch me. I'll be weak and let him explain. I don't want an explanation. I don't want to know why his ex was in his bedroom at four in the morning.
A little voice niggles at me, deep down, whispering questions.
Why was she dressed and sitting on the edge of his bed as if she'd just arrived, while he was in bed and half-naked?
(They just finished fucking and she was about to leave) answers the hurt in my soul.
Why did he look so upset, so confused, so hurt?
(Because he knew he was guilty, guilty, guilty) answers the hurt in my heart.
Why was there a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol on his side table and an empty garbage can beside his bed?
(Drunk ex sex, obviously) answers the hurt in my mind.
Streetlights pass overhead, glowing orange-amber. On my left, the lake is a dark void. Headlights approach. Flash at me. A horn honks.
I realize I'm on the wrong side of the road. Swerve to put the white line on my right.
My phone rings again.
And again.
And again.
More texts.
I'm tempted to throw my phone out the window—and I’m just as tempted to see what he has to say for himself.
No.
Don't go there.
Don't open yourself up to bullshit. Because you just know it's gonna be bullshit.
Men are just naturally cheaters, Mom used to tell me. Especially once I got to dating age. It was a refrain for her— men are just naturally cheaters; have fun with 'em but don’t trust ’em…not a one .
I always dismissed it as the bitterness of a woman cheated on. Mom was a hurt, bitter woman—something I only really came to understand after she was gone, as I entered adulthood myself. I've never known my father's identity, and I now suspect it's because he hurt her. I always assumed it was because he was just some rando she hooked up with at a show, and that's possible, but it seems more likely that he meant something to her. She wouldn't have erased all evidence of his existence if he hadn’t hurt her. If he was just some hump-and-dump from a show, she'd have told me something about him. His name. Where in the country I was conceived—a nything about him.
But no. For all the information she ever gave up on the subject, I may as well have been an immaculate conception.
I've thought about looking for him but I've always decided not to—it's not like he's going to suddenly want a relationship with a daughter he doesn't know exists, or worse yet, knows about and abandoned anyway.
It's fucked up that it's easier to think about my long-lost father than Felix.
I'm alone on the road again, and now the streetlights are gone, leaving me in darkness with only the moon for light.
I think I'm heading north. Not like it matters. Not like I care.
Maybe I’ll just leave the bus. I have the rest of my things. Clothes and toiletries, at least. I could come back for the rest later, once I've had some emotional distance.
Yeah, that's the only answer. I can't deal with him.
I can't deal with any more heartache, any more loss, any more grief…any more anything.
It's too hard.
I’ve lost too much. I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever cared about.
GramGram.
Mom.
Dutchie.
Faye.
Now Felix before I even really had him.
It's just so fucking unfair. I fought with myself all the way here from California—about Felix, about my heart: I’m ready…I’m not ready.
By the time I reached Michigan, I was fully on board. Despite my hurting heart, despite my fear, I realized that Felix is important. I just feel safe with him—or, I did. I instinctively trust him. I was willing, almost immediately, to offer my body to him. My heart is a different topic, but that wasn't far behind.
Now?
I'm so mixed up I don't know what to do, how to feel, what to think, where to go.
I wonder how long you can endure a panic attack before it becomes a medical problem? I can't breathe properly; it feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. My hands are shaking and I'm crying so hard it's almost like a seizure.
Yet, my brain is going a million miles an hour.
Hating Felix.
Loving him.
Wanting to find him and slap him and curse him out for fucking with my heart like that.
Wanting to let him explain, hoping there's an explanation that lets us be together.
I have flashbacks of that magical moment I shared with him. Kissing him. Touching. The pleasure was almost secondary to the emotional intimacy—as if it was more than mere foreplay.
He touched me and kissed me like…god, I don't even know. Like I was…precious. But not fragile. He didn't treat me like a porcelain doll. But he was still respectful, considerate.
And my god, how hard he made me come…multiple times.
FUCK!
Why did he have to go and fuck his ex? We could have had something real.
Tears flow faster as hurt and anger boil over and turn acidic in my gut—nausea bubbles in my belly, threatening to spew my chaotic emotions past my clenched teeth.
Maybe he didn't fuck her. Maybe it was a misunderstanding. I want so desperately to believe that.
I wish Faye were here. She'd have something saucy, sassy, sarcastic, and insightful to say.
God, I miss that woman already.
My phone jangles again, and I'm more tempted than ever to either pick it up and talk to him or pick it up and throw into the fucking lake.
The temptation is too powerful—I let my gaze steal down to the passenger seat, to my purse, to the blue-white-glowing rectangle inside.
No.
I rip my gaze back up the road, but it's too late. A fat raccoon crouches in the middle of the road, eyes glowing in my headlights.
I know better, but instinct takes over. My foot smashes the brake pedal and the back end fishtails, tires squealing, and I feel them stutter and skip on the blacktop. I wrench foolishly, stupidly, recklessly at the wheel to get the nose under control, but the SUV bobbles, swerves too far the other direction.
Time becomes elastic, stretching like taffy.
I feel gravity twisting and grabbing at me as the vehicle hurtles airborne, and then my purse is above my head and everything is tumbling out of it—phone, wallet, lip gloss, wrapped tampons, pens, hand sanitizer, the box of condoms I bought on the way to Michigan, a transparent yellow plastic lighter, a pre-rolled joint in a glass tube…
The stretch of time lasts for a singular eternity as the SUV rotates midair; the tires smack blacktop with a sickening crunching squeal, and time snaps back and speeds up, everything happening all at once, too fast. I'm rolling, and glass is shattering and metal is screaming and agony is crashing through me and I'm seeing stars and feeling lances of pain in a delocalized rain of razors.
The rolling lasts for an hour.
Stopping abruptly, the SUV teeters on two tires and then topples to its side, driver’s side facing the sky. I'm suspended in the air sideways. Hot blood trickles into my eyes, tangs in my mouth. Smoke swirls. Silence, but for the faint creak of a still-spinning wheel.
My eyes scan, search—find a glowing blue-white rectangle below my face, just out of reach.
I stretch, gritting my teeth around a scream. Tap the screen—it tries to recognize my face but I'm out of range or it's too dark. The keypad pops up, prompting me to input my code. Dizzy, woozy, agony radiating from a dozen places, darkness enveloping me, I struggle to remember my passcode and then struggle to input it correctly. I succeed after a failed attempt. The home screen appears, and I tap the green messages squircle with its red icon telling me I have twenty-one unread messages.
Blood trickles down my arm, over my wrist, onto my finger, smearing the screen with dark red streaks. Tap the bar at the bottom, bringing up the keyboard.
I'm faint, fading. It's hard to think.
Fucking raccoon. Next time, I'm plowing over the fat little bitch.
Me:
H—
E—
L—
P—
I have to type each letter carefully—everything is dark and twisty. I think I sent the message—I squint at the screen as if I’m drunk and see each letter in blue on the screen, but the blue bar is stuck a quarter inch from the right side of the screen, indicating the message hasn't gone through yet.
Please, please, please.
Fucking raccoon.
Also, fuck that stupid tall skinny rich bitch for poaching my man.
Bloop .
The letters arrange themselves higher on the screen, and the word "delivered" appears beneath the P.
Read it.
Read it, goddammit.
I can't make my arm work, can't move my fingers, can't stop my eyes from closing.
Stay awake.
Stay the fuck awake, Ember.
The last thing I see is "Delivered" switch to "read" and a gray bubble with three dots appears, the dots rippling.
I hear the reverse bloop of incoming messages, but my eyes won't focus, and the narrowing dark surrounds me with swirling hungry shadows.
Me:
Fee
I manage to get them all together, smearing blood on the blue send arrow.
The last thing I see is a gray box appear:
Felix:
I’m coming. I'll find you. I love you.
Fucking what ?
This is when he says it? When I'm fucking dying?
That's my final thought before the ravenous dark swallows me.