Page 38 of Bona Fide

? Send The Pain Below — Chevelle ?

The lunch bustleof the restaurant seeps through the secluded corner as I settle in across from my father. I’ve debated over a dozen times today about blowing him off. That I really didn’t need his shit right now when I’m already dealing with enough stress.

Enough remorse for placing the blame where it didn’t belong, but I want this over.

I’m tired of the multiple emails from his staff trying to schedule stupid shit with me. I’m beyond over his voicemails and him bugging Em when I don’t answer the phone. He’s like a bad girlfriend who thinks if she harasses you that you’ll start to love her.

“Thank you for joining me,” my father greets then gestures at the drink waiting for me. “I ordered your normal whiskey. I hope that’s okay?”

"It's fine—" I start unbuttoning my coat. "—thank you." He waits for me to take a sip before speaking again. It looks like I'm going to need it apparently.

“I assume you know why I’ve called you here. And, as much as I know you don’t want to talk about it, I want to help you.”

This shit again.

I sigh. “With?”

“Demi.”

My body reacts at just the two syllables of her name. My muscles tense, and my jaw hardens like it’s about to shatter at the faintest touch. Memories infiltrate my brain, and I can’t get it to shut off. Phoebe’s words keep replaying over and over again in my head. So much so that I believe the only way for me to get them to shut off is to bang my head repeatedly against a brick wall.

Because she killed her.

My gut contorts painfully as I attempt to breathe through my nose. It flares, trying to inhale so I can calm myself, but all I can think of is how I wasn’t there. How I didn’t know that my twin sisters weren’t prone to drugs on their own.

They had a nice push that wore designer dresses and got her nails done every week.

My sisters liked to read, and do puzzles. They both used to fight over Barbies, and tried to always paint my room with watercolors when I was out playing football. I stepped on more legos as a kid than I cared to admit, and chased them around the house more times than I can count.

I wouldn’t call them angels by any means, but they weren’t partiers and pill poppers.

And definitely not coke-heads.

“What’s wrong?” My eyes snap to my father across the booth, looking back at me with concern in his eyes.

I can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve seen that emotion in him. When he appeared like he truly gave two shits about his kids.

“Get fucked,” I deadpan, grabbing my glass and tipping it back.

I drain half the glass, welcoming the burn down my throat and hitting the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t save Camila, she was gone, but I sure as hell was going to protect my other sister.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snaps, picking at his napkin—dare I say—nervously.

“Everything,” I carp. “But that’s not what we’re going to talk about today. I got it handled.”

“Like everything else, yes, you keep preaching that statement to me, Son. I’m not saying you’re incapable of doing this on your own, I’m just extending—”

My blue eyes flick back to his brown. “Your help. Yes, how many times do I have to turn you down?”

My father leans back against the cream-colored leather of the booth. “We both know you haven’t been happy with her for years.”

“Are we back to that? Who are we talking about here?”

I want to hear him say it. I want him to admit that this problem, the bane of my existence, is also because he helped push it upon me.

“We need to face this head-on,” he replies slowly, ignoring my questions. “We need to fight this.”

I perk a brow, squeezing my tumbler in my hand. “Again with this ‘we’ shit.”

---