Chapter 23 – Reese #2
“Fuck you, Everett,” I spat, turning on my heel and trying to push his words out of my mind before they could stick.
But it was too late.
A tear rolled down my cheek and I angrily swiped it away.
I didn’t want to, but I headed toward the administrative building to talk to Dean Voss. He wouldn’t lie to me.
Right?
When I got there, Ilsa was at her desk and gave me a bubbly hello! as I approached.
“I need to speak with Dean Voss, please,” I said.
She pursed her lips. “Oh, I’m sorry, hon, he’s not in right now. I can tell him you stopped by, though. Was it something urgent?”
Yes, it fucking was.
“No,” I said as the most crushing disappointment raked through me. “Thank you.”
I left the building, forgot all about my next class, and went back to my room instead.
Curled up in my bed and stared into space.
It wasn’t true. I didn’t believe Everett. He was a hateful, lying piece of shit.
Dakota wouldn’t just leave me like this without a word, he had to have—
My phone buzzed and I snatched it up so fast and frantically that I almost dropped it.
It wasn’t Dakota.
It was my fucking grandma.
I debated not even picking up the call.
Almost let it go to voicemail.
But she’d just call again. I swiped to answer so we could have the same conversation we did every year.
The disappointment was smothering me now, and in spite of the fact that I couldn’t breathe anymore, I said, “Hi, Grandma.”
She called me every year on the same day—the anniversary of my dad’s death.
I’d completely forgotten. I never forgot the date, how could I forget it? The day that I’d been left all alone in this world. The day that had carved into stone the awful truth: that I wasn’t worth living for.
I wasn’t worth a single thing.
“Reese. How have you been? All is well, I hope.”
She didn’t actually care. All of this was just lip service; she was doing what she thought my dad would’ve wanted her to do.
“Fine. What about you?”
“I’m getting by. Going to see your father today. Any requests?”
Yeah, I had a few.
Could you ask him why he put all the blame on me? Could you ask him what, exactly, it was about me that was so unlovable? Could you ask him what I could’ve done differently to be worthy of his love? Could you ask him if any of the good memories I have are real?
Because they all felt like some other kid’s memories, some happier child who had a dad who’d loved him once upon a time.
“No. No requests.”
“Alright. Do you need any money?”
No, I didn’t need her money. I didn’t want anything from her, especially not these pointless phone calls. All they did were dredge up bad memories; I was always left feeling hollow and wrong for days afterward.
I wasn’t sure why I still picked up. Maybe because she was my only tie to a family I’d once had. She was the only living proof that any of it was real.
She was flesh and blood and a croaky, disapproving voice on the end of the line.
Except…what happened when she died?
Fuck, I was all out of sorts today.
I cleared my throat. “No, I’m all set. Thanks, Grandma.”
“Alright. Take care.”
“Yeah. You too.”
I hung up and stared at the black screen of my phone, picturing her time-worn face pinched in disapproval as she donned her lavender shawl and matching hat to go visit Dad’s grave.
She also left flowers at Lauren’s, but she refused to visit my mom.
I never asked about that anymore; anytime I had in the past, she’d clicked her tongue and changed the subject.
I knew she blamed me for Mom and Lauren’s death as much as my dad did, and she blamed me for his death, too, in spite of the fact that he was the fucking adult who’d made his choices.
He chose to drink to the point of blackout, he chose to get behind the wheel of his car that night. I’d never know if he drove off that bridge intentionally or not, but it didn’t matter. The end result was the same.
He chose death over his own son, and that…
There was no coming back from that kind of knowledge.
I thought about going to the cemetery, but decided against it. It would only make me even more miserable and hyperfixated on the fact that Dakota wasn’t here and he hadn’t returned any of my calls or messages and I didn’t know if he was lying dead in a ditch somewhere or not.
I should be used to being abandoned by now, whether by choice or circumstances outside of anyone’s control.
I should be used to being alone.
Was that really something anyone could get used to, though?
I’d gotten used to the discomfort of it, that was for sure.
I lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling after hanging up with my grandma, telling myself I should get up and go to class and not doing it.
When my phone buzzed again at some point, I thought maybe it was my grandma calling me back for some reason.
But it wasn’t her.
It was Dakota.
My heart started pounding as I unlocked the screen, and when I saw the message I felt like I’d just been dropped off a cliff.
Dakota:
Stop bothering me.
I reread the words over and over again, trying to make them make sense or hoping that they’d change, that they weren’t what I thought they were, that I was just projecting my own insecurities onto the screen and was imagining it all.
But I wasn’t imagining it. They were there. They weren’t changing, and the ugliest feeling snaked through me.
Was this a joke?
He was joking, right? He was fucking with me? Or had he been fucking with me the entire time and I’d fallen for it? For all of it?
Had Everett not been lying?
No, this wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening. Everett had to be lying. It wasn’t true.
My hands were shaking as I typed a message back.
I’d finally heard from him after two days of radio silence, and I wished I’d never heard from him at all.
His silence was better than those words.
I’d rather stay in that void of uncertainty than this black hole of incredulous disappointment and gut-wrenching anguish.
Me:
What? That’s not funny, Dakota, I’ve been worried out of my mind!! Where are you???
I replayed the last time I’d seen him in my mind, his smile, the softness in his eyes, the fondness in his voice. He’d told me I was precious. He’d come undone beneath me and held me so tight, like he was afraid I’d float away if he didn’t.
How could that be a lie? How could I have misread this so badly? Was I that desperate to be noticed? To be the object of someone’s affection and attention? Was I that fucking foolish?
I thought of my dad in that moment. Because yes, I was that foolish.
I was that desperate to be noticed. People never ended up being who you thought they were, no matter how much you believed you knew them.
No matter how much you loved them. It was all a fucking illusion, and the truth was always veiled in a tempting lie.
A hum of agitated energy buzzed beneath my skin, so I paced the room to try and get rid of it. His neat books lined up so perfectly on his desk caught my attention, and right when I was about to go grab them and throw them across the room, my phone buzzed again.
And like the desperate fool I was, I ran to read his message, still hoping he’d tell me this was just a cruel joke.
Dakota:
I’m actually not joking. It’s really creepy.
I was having trouble breathing, every breath too shallow, my heart not moving fast enough to get sufficient oxygen into my blood.
This couldn’t be him. Someone had taken his phone and was messaging me. This couldn’t be Dakota. He’d never spoken to me like this. The Dakota I knew would never say these things to me.
But who the hell would have his phone? Who would say these things? Everett, maybe, but how would he have gotten Dakota’s phone?
And where was Dakota?
It was much easier to believe that I just wasn’t worthy, but I couldn’t get behind the possibility that it was actually Dakota sending those messages. He’d never say those things.
But even if Dakota walked into the room right now and told me it wasn’t him, I’d still be dealing with these feelings of inadequacy.
It wasn’t just Dakota being gone; talking to my grandma had excavated the worst memories that came with the most awful beliefs.
If this was a joke, it was the cruelest kind of joke anyone could play.
I choked on a sob.
I wanted to hurt.
I hated the tears that were spilling down my face, hated this wretched feeling that was twisting and burning inside me.
It was worse than rejection or bitterness or anger; it was dark and raw and clawed at the frayed edges of my threadbare soul. Nausea roiled in my gut as I started to tremble, and then a forceful surge of fury had me throwing my phone across the room with a horrible cry that was wrung from my chest.
Then I ripped my room apart.
I yanked the covers from my bed, threw the pillows, grabbed the books off my desk and chucked them at the wall. I went to my dresser and jerked the drawers open, flinging the clothes in every direction.
It wasn’t enough. Not even close.
I stumbled to the bathroom, pulling open the drawer on the left and grabbing my toiletry bag.
I unzipped it and pulled out the small pouch that held my razors, then caught my reflection in the mirror.
I wanted to break it. I wanted to drown myself in the shards of glass, wanted to break a thousand mirrors and dive into the broken pieces and choke on them. Suffocate on the sharp fragments.
My hand was shaking so hard that the razors rattled loudly in the bag, and—and—
My breath hitched violently.
Fuck.
No, no, no.
I couldn’t do that.
No matter how much I was hurting, I couldn’t do that again.
Doing that again meant I was well and truly gone. I’d promised my mom, I’d promised her I would stop, even if she couldn’t hear me, even if she wasn’t around, I’d made a promise.
I’d promised myself.
With a sob, I threw the whole bag at the wall. The contents spilled into the tub, but it wasn’t enough.
I looked at myself in the mirror, staring at my repulsive face, the hideous birthmark.
Scissors. Did I have scissors?
No, even better.