You and Everything After

“Hey, you’re throwing a lot of stones for a girl who could live in a glass house for all I know,” I say back, my gut sinking again at the thought of my lost watch. I can’t let go of it.

“What does that even mean?” she says, tossing her head to the side and yelling to the sky, her hands stretched out to her sides.

“It means that I’ve had a past. But for all I know, you’ve had one too. I mean, are you going to tell me that you’ve always been a sheltered little princess? That you’re that good in bed just because? That you maybe haven’t slept with a few guys who have taught you a thing or two so I can reap the rewards?” I’m getting nasty, pushing where I shouldn’t push. I can tell I’ve pushed too far when her hand flies at my face—my head cracks to the side on impact from her slap. My cheek stings, and the cold air only makes it hurt more.

I like the hurt.

“You asshole,” she seethes. “You can go fuck yourself! And go buy a new fucking watch, too! That one was ugly.”

I hold my tongue as she walks away, but before she gets too far, I throw one more nail in our coffin. “Yeah, maybe we should take a break. I think we were getting too serious,” I mutter, just loudly enough for her to hear. Like I even need to say this. I watch her walk away and hold two middle fingers over her head, like pistols shooting me through the heart.

I’m not sure when I started to cry, but it happens. Nothing over the top—there’s no sobbing, no sniffles. I’m in the dark of night, and no one will ever know I’ve even done it. But I do. Three whole tears slide down my cheek, and I let them fall into the collar of my shirt before I swipe my sleeve across my eyes and chin.

“Goddamn it!” I say, loud enough that the girls who have just stumbled out of the bar look my way. “Yeah, yeah. Dude in wheelchair talking to himself. Mind your own goddamn business!”

It’s just a watch. And I can live without it. I know I don’t think I can. But I can. I’m not so sure I can live without Cass, though. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! I’ve messed up. I know I’ve messed up. It was like a fire I lit over the desert, and every piece of brush in its wake went up in flames. All I’m left with is smoke. And it’s suffocating me.

I pull my phone from my pocket and text my brother, because he’s the only one who won’t judge me too harshly. He’ll judge, but it will come with sympathy. When he texts back, I tell him to meet me at the bar. I head inside and order a round of beer and shots, then don’t bother waiting for him to show up before I down his drinks and mine.

I’ll forget the watch tonight. I’ll forget Cass too. And tomorrow, I’ll suffer.

Chapter 18

Cass

The hand of Nick Owens is fast and swift. My father’s law firm can handle most things just by flashing its name. He told me Paul Cotterman had turned in his resignation after his phone call. Just as he always does, my father makes my problems go away.

I thanked him. And of course, he told me I didn’t need to thank him. What stung is that I don’t think he actually believed me. I think he thinks that maybe, just maybe, I was acting inappropriately, and that I let things get out of hand. Just like last time. But he still made it disappear, because he loves me.

He loves me. He just doesn’t believe me.

Rowe is still out of town. Paige is completely moved out, thanks to Nate’s help. And I’m alone. For the first time ever, I’m completely alone. I used to wish for this. I think maybe all twins do. What I realize, though, is maybe I was confusing my craving for individuality with my desire to be alone. Individuality is liberating. Alone leads to one thing—loneliness.

I don’t know what happened, other than the fact that my incident with Paul Cotterman left me crooked…feeling dirty. And I just couldn’t shake playing the part.

Sabotage is a funny thing; self-sabotage even funnier. Ty and I—we were both at work—sabotaging left and right until there was nothing left but shreds and a shadow of our dignity.

For an hour, I’ve been staring at the picture he drew; the sad melancholy of The National is playing on random shuffle on my iPod. Even their “pop” songs are sad. The drawing is beautiful, done by his hands, days ago.

“That’s how I see you,” he said.

Not anymore.

I don’t know how the ugliness showed itself—how he saw my history without me ever telling him. But when he put it out there, so bluntly? Promiscuity comes at a high price when you’re a teenager, and it just keeps taking.

I got his watch. I had to. I don’t hate him. I far from hate him. Now that I have it, I understand why it’s so important. Or at least, I have a clue.