Chapter 58 Rhea
“Ifound him.” Boone hangs up the phone behind the bar.
“Where?” I ask.
“You’ll never guess, not in a million years,” he says as he moves around the bar to come out and wander into the kitchen.
Kaia is helping pick up the slack, running food to tables as Boone double works the bar and the kitchen.
We tried to convince him that we could close the kitchen to big orders for the night, but he insisted it would be fine, and Kaia backed him.
So now we’re all scrambling to keep the Hollow running the way Brighton does—without even breaking a sweat.
“He’s in lock up,” Kaia barks, laughing. “I swear to everything holy, Boonie, if you don’t bring me back a mug shot of Brighton Black, I will never speak to you again.”
“You told her first?” I say, completely offended.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how to sneak out of here to go get him.” Boone throws his hands up.
“Let him rot for a night,” Kaia snaps and grabs more plates.
“I’ll go,” I say to him, and he instantly shakes his head at me. “I’m not leaving him there.”
“He’s drunk, Rhea, really drunk,” Boone warns.
“It’s fine, he can be drunk out of jail.” I groan and hand him the radio I usually wear in my ear to talk to Sunday behind the bar when I’m at the front door.
I fish my keys out and wander to the parking lot, taking my time to find a playlist, only to notice there’s a new one queued up in my list.
A Happy Playlist for My Sad Girl.
“You’re a fucking prick,” I swear, plugging in my phone and hitting play on it only to cry the entire way to Lorette.
Every single song on the playlist is happy in rhythm with the saddest possible lyrics I’ve ever heard.
And I hate him every single time a new one starts.
It’s so far out of his wheelhouse that it must have taken him hours—maybe days.
I slam my hands on the steering wheel, and the Bronco swerves a little, scaring me enough to slow down.
“I hate you!” I scream at the empty highway.
By the time I get to the station, my head is throbbing, and my chest is sore from screaming, but I don’t feel so wound up and am a little more confident about coming face to face with him.
You can do this. You’re a brave little toaster.
I exhale and push through the doors. It smells like bleach, booze, and blood inside, and my stomach churns. It was a lot easier doing this the first time when Brighton was at my back, not the one needing to be bailed out.
“I’m here to pick up Brighton Black,” I say to the girl behind the counter, and she starts the paperwork.
I hear him before I see him. He’s laughing with the cop escorting him out like they’re old friends, and it’s infuriating.
“Say hi to Lovey for me. He hasn’t been around much lately. He’s turning into a homebody!” The cop shakes Brighton’s hand and gives me a tiny nod.
Brighton turns, stopping dead in his clumsy, drunk tracks when he sees me standing there with my arms crossed.
“Why are you here?” He asks, his gaze glassy, a small smile on his face.
“What did you do?” He steps forward, reaching out to the small bandage on my forehead, but I step back and don’t answer his second question.
He scowls.
There you are.
“Boone is trying to keep the Hollow from burning down in your absence. I’m the only one who could leave to bring you home from your joy ride.” I snap. “Did you have fun?” I ask him, and his jaw tightens. “Good,” I whisper.
I don’t waste time trying to convince him to follow. I just walk out to the Bronco, and before I can open my door, he does it for me. I don’t look at him as I climb inside and start the engine.
“Hey, you got the playlist!” He smiles at me and feels like someone presses my heart into a bowl of broken glass. “Wow, it's clean in here,” he says, looking around. I hate how easy-going he is when he’s drunk. I want my Brighton. Not whoever this is.
You cleaned… You took it to the cleaners!
I want to scream.
“Shut up,” I tell him and turn the stereo off. “Here.” I hand him a water. “Drink.”
“Grumpy.” He reaches out, and his fingers tap the volume back up. I keep my eyes on the road, but I can feel him staring at me because it burns like the sun.
At least with the music on, I can’t hear him breathing.
I’m so upset with him I could cry. But simultaneously, I’m so glad he’s not dead. This could have been a lot worse. It’s another twenty minutes before he opens his mouth again.
“You’re mad at me.”
“Take a nap or something,” I huff.
“Talk to me.”
Are you serious?
I whip the wheel to the side and slam on the brakes.
“Get out.”
“We’re still half an hour from Harbor,” he says. “Oh, don’t be like that.”
“Maybe the walk will sober you up,” I say.
He pops the top on the water bottle, staring me directly in the eyes and drinks the entire thing without blinking before he tosses it on the floor.
“Wow,” I click my teeth together.
“It was getting too tidy in here,” he smirks.
“Ha, ha.” I shake my head and inhale a shaky breath before closing my eyes and leaning my forehead against the steering wheel. After a couple of minutes, I turn my head to look at him. “I can’t do this, Brighton.”
“Bright,” he corrects.
“It’s not funny.” My bottom lip shakes as I hold back the tears. “You’ve been a liability for forty-eight hours and… You scared me.”
His face goes cold. “I couldn’t find the control. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“No,” I sigh, “today, you scared me.” I argue gently, “When Boone showed up at the game and said you were gone… that no one could get a hold of you.” The tears fall before I can stop them, and the muscle in his jaw tightens.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he says roughly. I want to believe you.
“We couldn’t find you,” I choke out, and he reaches out to touch my face, but I pull back, and he drops his hand. “You turned your phone off. You had Riona calling hospitals for your body,” I hiss at him.
“Who would make you and Daisy lunch?” he teases with a shaky voice.
“Don’t just take off,” I demand, even though I have no right. I’m just trying to survive how sad he looks and failing spectacularly at it. “Please.”
“Alright. I’m sorry.” He apologizes again.
I take it, bank it, and pull off the side of the road and take us back to Harbor. He falls asleep for a bit, thankfully, but the second he feels the Bronco cross the rough divot leading into the Hollow lot, he’s wide awake and looking green.
“If you puke in here, you’re cleaning it,” I warn, and it makes him chuckle, but he flips open the door the second it’s in park and hurls up what’s left of his stomach on the concrete.
I get out and help him up straight, the feeling of his skin on mine like a sunburn I didn’t ask for when he takes my hand and pushes me away. “I’m okay, Reaper.”
I flinch like I’ve been slapped, and he knows why.
“I didn’t… shit, Rhea!” He calls after me as I pop the lock on the kitchen door and walk inside.
The Hollow is still packed, and Boone finds me instantly with a worried look.
I roll my eyes but step to the side to show him, Brighton following behind me with calculated steps.
I point to the stairs, guiding him up and walking behind him closely so I know he isn’t going to fall.
Brighton turns to the side on the stairs, his shoulder leaning against the door, and I slide in beside him to unlock it.
Before I can, he leans in close and inhales slowly, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against mine.
We had been here once before, months ago, before the word roommate, before the word friend.
When I was simply Sunday’s best friend, and he was Killjoy.
So much carnage in so little time.
“Don’t leave tonight,” he whispers, his lips so close to mine I can feel every word. The plea is quiet but violent, and my entire body curls into the sound of it as a guarantee that I won’t.
But I have to.
I will not be my mother's daughter.
I cannot stand around until it’s too late.
“Get in bed,” I say. His body tenses—but it’s enough to get him moving.
He starts to strip the second he’s beyond the threshold, and I put both his shoes on the mat where he likes them, collect his socks, shirt, and pants to put them in the basket.
I fill a glass of water for him and start the washing machine with tears in my eyes before wandering back to his room to find him sleeping in bed on top of the sheets.
It’s nearly impossible to be mad at him when he looks this small.
I set the water on his nightstand and kneel next to the bed to brush the perfect dark strand of hair off his forehead.
“You’re right, Brighton,” I whisper, “it’s not mine to fix.
” I search all the harsh lines of his face before looking up at the stars on the ceiling, my heart breaking because all I want to do is crawl into that bed with him.
I kiss his cheek, lingering just to feel his skin. “I just want to be-friends-who-kiss with you forever,” I whisper. “But I need your help.”