Chapter 20
Landon
I missed my afternoon dates with Shay, though I supposed it made sense that she was only allowed to go to and from school each day.
If I had been her parents, I would have banned her from any human interaction for the next thirty years.
I was lucky enough I even got to see her during the school day and at rehearsal.
That Tuesday, there was a knock at my front door, and I hurried to answer it, stupidly hoping it was Shay. To my disappointment, there stood Monica. She was the last person I wanted to see, but like a bad habit, Monica had a way of popping up at the worst times.
“What do you want?” I asked her, opening my front door.
“To get high with you,” she muttered, already stoned out of her mind.
“I don’t have time for this, Monica,” I sternly stated, going to shut the door.
She placed her foot in the doorway, stopping it.
“Monica, really. I’m busy.”
“With that bitch?” she hissed.
My jaw tightened. “Don’t call her that.”
“Oh, I see. Now you’re protecting her instead of me?”
“What do you care? Aren’t you with Reggie?”
“That didn’t work out. I’m over that loser. I want you back.”
Figures.
I rolled my eyes as she moved her foot, and then I shut the door. She wasn’t in the right state of mind for a conversation of any kind. What had happened to KJ not dealing to her anymore? The last time I saw him, I’d asked him to stop.
“Has she seen them?!” Monica shouted on my front porch. “Have you gotten so close that you’ve shown her your ugly fucking scars?! Has she seen what you’ve done to yourself?!”
Her words vibrated against my skin as I flung the front door open again. I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her inside, slamming the door shut behind her. “What the fuck, Monica?!” I hissed, my heart pounding faster and faster against my chest.
“Let me go,” she whined, yanking her arm out of my grip.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Who do you think you are coming over here shouting like a madwoman?”
“I wouldn’t be shouting like a madwoman if you didn’t make me so mad!” she cried, her body trembling.
She was shivering like a damn fool, and it was clear she was very high. I arched an eyebrow. “What are you on?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she slurred, her words coated with depression.
Dammit, Monica.
I hated this girl. I hated her addiction, and I hated how much of myself I saw in her broken eyes.
“Tell me, Mon,” I ordered.
“I did tell you. I’m on nothing. What? You think you’re the only asshole who can get clean?”
“Did you get something from KJ?” I had begged the guy to let her be, told him how she slipped deeper and deeper each and every time. He’d sworn he’d stop, but promises from a drug dealer meant nothing to me. “Are you dealing with KJ?” I asked.
“Why, are you jealous?” She snickered. “I’ll fuck him good if it makes you jealous.”
My anger toward Monica for barging in on me, on my life, on the life I was trying to heal had shifted.
The anger became true concern, genuine worry.
I was worried about the thorn in my ass.
If she was hanging out with KJ on her own, well, that was dangerous.
I knew Monica had a thing for older men.
It just made me nervous that one of the older men was KJ, of all people.
I crossed my arms. “When was the last time you ate?”
“Shut up, Landon.”
“Answer me.”
She shrugged. “Don’t know.”
I sighed, pointed toward the dining room. “Sit.”
“Oh, so now you want me to stay? Screw you, Landon. I can open my phone and find a shit ton of men who will want me to stay, who will want me to touch them, to want them, to spread my legs for—”
“Sit the hell down, Monica!” I barked. My patience was being tested, and every time she talked about what other men did to her, it pissed me off—not because I wanted her but because I knew they didn’t. They used her, abused her, then tossed her to the side.
Just like Reggie had ended up doing.
She gave me a sly smirk, curtseyed, and then sat down at the dining room table.
I went into the kitchen and slapped together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, grabbed a glass of milk, and set it down in front of her. I sat across from her at the table, as far away as possible.
“Eat,” I said.
She rolled her eyes and flipped me off. Then she picked up the sandwich and took a bite.
With each bite she took, a part of me sighed with relief. There’d been many nights I had sat there with her, eating PB&Js—drunk, high, and wasted out of my mind. I didn’t miss those nights. I didn’t miss that cold feeling of despair, that emptiness.
Even when we ate the sandwiches together, I always felt alone whenever I was with Monica. Maybe her loneliness made me drown even more.
“Was it over me?” she questioned.
“Was what over you?”
“The fight with Reggie. Did you fight him because of me?”
The question was so heavy, and the desperation in her eyes was clear as day.
She wanted us to fight over her. She wanted to be the reason men lost their minds.
I’d never met a woman who craved being wanted so much.
It was sad to see. I didn’t answer for two reasons: One, it would’ve hurt her already damaged heart if I told her the truthful no, and two, I knew my silence would be enough of an answer.
Her eyes watered over for a split second before she returned to her sinister stare. Every now and then, you could see flashes of the hurt girl Monica was. You could see it in her eyes, but she never showed it long enough for most people to notice.
“So did you?” she asked.
“Did I what?”
“Show her your scars.”
“We’re not talking about that.”
She snickered, shaking her head. “It’s because she’ll never accept you. She’ll never accept all your scars. She’ll never love you for who you really are, Landon. She’ll never love—”
“Stop,” I whispered, pounding my hand against the table.
She pounded her hands against the table as well. “No. No. No. No!”
“Monica!”
“Landon!”
“You need to—”
“Why her?!” she screamed, tossing her hands up in the air in frustration.
“What?”
“Why”—her voice cracked—“her?” Her eyes watered and her body shook, and I knew it wasn’t from whatever drug was invading her body.
Her emotions were taking over, overwhelming her to the point that they had no other escape but to leak from her tear ducts.
“Why not me? Why couldn’t you fall in love with me? ”
“Monica, don’t do this. You know why that’s never going to be a thing. You and I are toxic.”
“Yeah, like Romeo and Juliet. Don’t you see? I want to be your Juliet. I’m meant to be your Juliet, not her. She doesn’t deserve you.”
Lies.
I didn’t deserve Shay, and yet, I couldn’t stop craving her.
I didn’t reply to Monica because she was high and emotional. It was a pointless conversation. I just wished she would finish her sandwich and head home. I was tired of this ride Monica had been taking me on for the past few years. It was giving me motion sickness.
“So that’s it, huh? You’re just going to give me the silent treatment?” she hissed. “You’re just going to ignore me? Well, screw you, Landon!” She picked up the plate and threw it across the room, making it shatter against the wall.
There she was, angry Monica. Shocking. Whenever she didn’t get her way, she’d always throw a fit.
“OK,” I muttered, standing up from my chair. “It’s time for you to go.” I moved over to lift her from her chair, and she swatted my hand away.
“I don’t need your help,” she seethed, standing—and stumbling—on her own. “I don’t need anyone’s help.”
She started walking toward the front door, and I followed, though not too closely.
As she stepped out on the porch, she turned to look at me.
“Just to be clear, Landon, I wasn’t your toxicity.
I wasn’t your poison. You were born sick like your fucked-up uncle, and anyone who comes near you gets infected with your disease.
So fuck you for judging me when you’re the one who made me this way! ” she cried.
I didn’t say a word. She was too far gone for common sense.
She shoved my chest. “Eventually, you’re going to snap. You’re going to show your true colors. You’re going to rage, and I hope your stupid Juliet witnesses it all—your lowest lows, the ones you put me through nonstop, you asshole. Your time is almost up. Ticktock, jerk.”
She shoved me again, and I allowed it. She was hurting and angry and lost, and I understood all of those things. If I was forced to be her punching bag, I’d take her hits.
“Fight back,” she demanded as she kept hitting me, kept pushing me, kept begging me.
She was asking me to snap, to fall back into the darkness with her, to paint her shadows with my companionship, but I couldn’t do it anymore.
I couldn’t dance our old dance, couldn’t be who she wanted me to be anymore.
I was changing because Shay believed in my growth. She believed in me.
And I was starting to do the same.
“Fight, Landon!”
“No.” My voice was controlled and solid.
She hit me a few more times, but I didn’t crumble. I didn’t fight back. I didn’t break with her. If she wanted to fall apart, she’d have to deal with her own broken pieces, not mine.
“Fine!” She finally stepped away and started down the steps. “Have fun with your stupid play and your stupid Juliet and your stupid make-believe fairy tale. But, spoiler alert, Romeo!” she shouted, her hands still gesturing all over dramatically. “You both fucking die in the end!”
She stomped away, back to her house, still cursing me and still up in flames.
I waited on the porch for her to get safely inside.
Later that night, when Monica’s mom pulled the car into the driveway, I walked over to speak with her.
Mrs. Cole wasn’t the biggest fan of me, and to be fair, I wasn’t a fan of hers either.
She was a nasty woman who belittled Monica’s looks on the regular.
Every crash diet Monica ever had was due to her mother’s orders.
It must’ve been easy for Mrs. Cole to judge other people’s bodies, seeing as how hers was nearly all made at a plastic surgery clinic in Mexico.
“Mrs. Cole. Can I talk to you for a minute?” I asked.
She looked at me, seemingly already bothered by the fact that I was speaking her way. Her eyes moved up and down as she studied me. Her gaze flicked upward. “What is it, boy?”
She knew my name. She just preferred to never use it.
“I wanted to let you know that I think your daughter may need some help. She’s been getting into trouble, and she’s struggling. I wanted to give you a heads-up to see if—”
“Aren’t you the one who used to smoke pot and get drunk with my Monica?” she barked, holding her purse tight to her side.
“Well, yes, but—”
“No buts needed. My daughter is fine, as long as you keep your toxic self away from her. I know you, Harrison boy. I’ve heard stories about your dark, dark soul. Keep away from my daughter, do you hear me? You’re no good for her.”
Was she even hearing what I was saying?
“Look, hate me all you want, but Monica is sick, and she needs her parents—”
“She has her parents. Don’t come here telling me how to raise my daughter. She is fine. Now get off my driveway before I call the cops. If I see you anywhere near Monica again, trust me, there will be consequences.”
She wouldn’t listen to me. She couldn’t get her head out of her own ass to realize that there was a big issue at hand. She couldn’t deal with the possibility that she was slipping as a mother.
I left her place, then sent KJ a text message to cuss him out for selling to the most unstable teenage girl alive.
I walked back into my house. In the living room sat a huge grandfather clock that was ticking loudly. Monica was right about one thing: The ticking in my mind was growing louder and louder with each passing day as my birthday approached. I was working hard to avoid the explosion, though.