Page 33 of The Blackmail of Denise Randall

“We slept…” I blink a couple of times and feel my face burn. “As in me and you, we,” I clear my throat, “together? You think they’ll think that you spent the night here with me and we…”

He leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees and tilts his head. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head vigorously and rush over to the kitchen. I grab a glass and fill it with water. Lifting the glass, I take a huge gulp and then another. I finish the glass and try to control my breathing. I jump when I feel two strong hands on my hips.

“Relax,” he whispers in my ear.

Stepping out of his grasp, I turn around and hold my hands up. “I’m still processing what’s going on. I just found out that a guy I thought was nice was sleeping around while trying to be with me. Worse, he’s with your ex. And then there’s you, the guy who’s blackmailing me because I lost my cool with my archenemy bully whose dead brother bullied my dead brother. Oh, and apparently, you’re friends with everyone in my family but me. This is too much. Worse,” I my voice begins to break, “I almost k—” Oh God. I almost told him. I quickly suck my lips into my mouth and bite down hard.

“What?” He smiles. “You almost kissed me, again?”

I feel like there’s a huge weight on my chest, my lungs are going to collapse any minute. He’s still watching me, so I nod. “Look, it’s too much.” My voice squeaks and begins turning hysterical. “I’ve only been home for a day and—and—I’ve had a lot thrown at me. Which is nothing new. There’s always something so messed up going on with my family. It’s my turn, huh? I guess I’m really part of the family now. This is like some crazy rite of passage for being a Randall.”

“Calm down. Let’s have a seat.” He uses a calm, soothing voice as though I’m a frantic child. Maybe I am. That’s part of my problem. I’ve experienced so much that I’m wise beyond my years in the areas of loss and grief, as well as how cruel and unfair life can be. I’m not naïve in those areas. Yet, I’m still a little girl seeking attention and wanting to be loved. To feel important. I’ve not matured at loving myself enough. To be at a level of self-confidence that I don’t crave approval from everyone around me.

If I didn’t have the burning sensation in my eyes of tears about to erupt, I might sit down. It would be nice to have someone to talk to about all this. However, I know I’ll end up crying in front of him and telling him the truth, so I shake my head and hurry to the front door. He calls my name, but I slam the door shut behind me and run to the main house.

I manage to avoid my parents as I enter and head straight to my room. I lock the door and rush to my private bathroom. I try to control my breathing, but I can’t. Why? Why is my life so fucked up? Throwing my hands into my hair, I curl my fingers into my scalp and relish the feel of my nails scraping against the skin. Balling my hands into fists, I pull as I squeeze my eyes shut. My heart rate won’t slow down. Deep breaths are doing nothing for me. Letting go of my hair, I crumble to the floor. I open the bottom cabinet door under my sink and reach in the very back. I feel around, knocking everything over until I finally feel the plastic medicine bottles. Just holding the bottle in my hand, I begin to relax enough to get the cap off. I swallow the tiny pill and lean back. My body shivers as I wait for the calming effects to take over.

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