Page 65 of Blurred Lines

Silas frowns immediately. My past with alcohol isn't a glorious one. "Finn?—"

"Don't start," I tell him wearily. "I'll be careful."

"Okay," he says, stopping the train of thought then and there. "Okay."

Twilight drapes itself over Harvey's estate, turning the overgrown gardens into a tableau of shadows. The sunset bleeds crimson and gold across the horizon. It's beautiful but in a violent kind of way. I don't like such harsh beauty.

"Well, that's that," Silas mumbles, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by a brittle tension. "Guess it's time to face the real world again."

Caeleb claps him on the shoulder, his eyes guarded. "Emily's got the info. The rest is up to her." The words hang in the air, hollow and unsatisfying.

"See you guys around," I manage, the taste of failure sour in my mouth.

They nod, the unspoken hurts flashing between us. I watch them walk away, the fading light swallowing their figures. Alone, the silence feels oppressive. The itch to drown it all out, to numb the ache of Emily's betrayal, prickles under my skin.

My car is a sanctuary, the familiar smell of leather and old road maps a warped kind of comfort. I crank the engine, and the throaty rumble chases away some of the silence. The mansion disappears in my rearview mirror, but the vision of Emily reading Caeleb's text clings to me like a burr.

Instinct guides my hands, taking me away from familiar streets. The setting sun paints the coastal town of Emberton in streaks of orange and fiery pink. Vineyards blur past, their gnarled vines like outstretched claws in the fading light. I pull over when the ocean shimmers into view, a vast expanse of inky water reflecting the bruised sky.

Salt and brine fill my lungs as I step onto the cool sand. Waves crash and retreat, a tireless rhythm that only intensifies the thrumming in my ears. I should join the smattering of couples walking the beach, or head home to collapse into bed, but an emptiness gnaws at my gut.

The answer lies in the neon haze of Emberton's downtown strip. I park near a bar with a glowing sign promising cheap drinks and questionable company—perfect for a guy who just wants to forget. The inside is a blur of worn booths, blaring music, and too many bodies pressed close. A wave of oppressive heat washes over me, the smell of stale beer and desperation clinging to the air. I snag a stool at the bar, the worn wood sticky beneath my fingers.

"Beer?" The bartender, a grizzled man with a faded tattoo snaking up his arm, grunts a question.

"No," I mutter. "Make it something strong. And keep 'em coming."

The burn of whiskey is a welcome shock, a brief respite from the swirling storm in my head. I lose count of the glasses, the world fuzzing around the edges. Each shot is a nail in the coffin of my memories, of Emily's laughter, of the promises we shattered.

Time becomes meaningless. Faces and laughter wash over me, a faceless tide. Then she's there, a cascade of golden hair and a smile that makes my heart lurch even in this haze. Not Emily, but close enough.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Her voice is honeyed, her eyes a flirtatious challenge.

I should tell her to get lost, to leave me to my own self-destruction, but my voice is thick and clumsy. "Sure."

She sits beside me, too close, her perfume a mockery of Emily's clean, citrus scent. We make aimless conversation, her words blurring into the dull roar in my head. With each drink, the temptation sharpens. Here's oblivion, distraction, a fleeting illusion of control.

"My place or yours?" she whispers, her hand sliding along my thigh. The touch is fire, a twisted echo of the nights Emily and I shared.

I sway, torn between the desperate need to forget and the flicker of guilt that still burns even in this drunken stupor. I'm no saint, but there's a line I swore I'd never cross. A bitter laugh escapes me as I delete Emily's name and number, erasing even that small tether to the life I left behind.

"Yours," I rasp, a dangerous smile playing on my lips. My pride, what's left of it, demands this much. She leads me out and into her car, the world tilting precariously with each step.

In the cramped confines of her car, her scent is suffocating. We kiss, hungry and mindless, my body responding on autopilot. Each brush of her lips whispers of Emily, but it's a phantom touch, a ghost of what once was. The only way to silence it is to give in, to drown in sensation. I'm faintly aware she has a driver, and a fancy apartment.

We stumble inside once we reach it, fumbling with clothes and desperate kisses. And yet, as her fingers trace the line of my jaw, all I see is Emily's face, her eyes filled with trust now shattered. The weight of it all crashes down on me. I pull away, a hoarse apology caught in my throat. It's a cowardly escape, but I cling to it like a lifeline.

I clench my eyes shut, but even the darkness behind my lids can't erase the image of Emily's face, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. The girl beside me makes a soft, questioning sound, the rustling of sheets a stark contrast to the pounding of my guilt-ridden heart.

"I … I can't," I choke out, the words raw and unfamiliar.

Confusion ripples across her carefully made-up face, then hardens into anger. "Don't play games with me," she hisses, her voice sharp as broken glass.

"I'm not." My shoulders slump in defeat. "I just … I can't do this."

She scoffs, rolling away from me. The sting of rejection is a bitter balm to my aching soul. I deserve it, deserve the emptiness echoing in this too-small room.

Getting dressed feels like wading through quicksand, every movement heavy with humiliation. Somewhere in the haze of guilt and whiskey, I manage to mumble an apology, a pathetic offering to appease my tortured conscience. She doesn't even look my way as I stumble out, the night air like a slap against my burning face.

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