Page 2 of The Longshot

One that I only wish I could wake up from.

But that’s a false sense of promise. No one is coming to rescue me. I need to find my own way out. I have to find my own way out.

I swallow the lump in my throat and peer up at him, shaking my head ever so softly. “You’re not drunk,” I wearily attempt to invalidate my own words. “I was wrong, Simon. I don’t know what I was saying. You’re not drunk.”

Cautiously, I reach for his bloodied hand, and when he allows me, I shrug off my white cardigan from around my shoulders and wrap it across his knuckles to help control the bleeding.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” I apologize. “In fact…” I solemnly meet his face once more, tightening my pressure on his palm. “How about I go get you another one, okay?”

Waiting for his response is like waiting for his promises to actually mean something.

“I promise I’ll be better.”

“I promise this won’t happen again.”

It’s all fake.

It’s all for show.

It’s all at my expense.

His silence gives me no indicator as to what he’s thinking, yet his receptiveness to my touch tells me that he’s settling. He’s calming down.

“Hey.” I subtly attempt to brush past him, though he gives me no room to get by. “Let me go get you another one, okay? Please?”

Simon diverts his gaze away from his palm and assesses me. As he does, I freeze in place, paralyzed by the instability of his presence.

I can feel just how glazed over my eyes are, and as my hands start to shake from his daggering stare, I know I can’t hold out on this pent-up emotion a second longer. That’s when all at once, the tears come falling down my cheeks, no matter how hard I try to stop them.

In a controlled motion, I shy my face away. The saltiness of my tears against my hot skin is a not-so-friendly reminder that the second I do manage to get out of here, I’ll need to make a bee-line back into the house. I can feel the bruise beneath my eye forming, and if what I know from the last time this happened is true, it’s probably already there.

“Chelsie,” Simon murmurs my name, and as his hands gravitate towards my face to brush away my tears, instinctively, I flinch backward.

He sucks in a breath, holds it there for a second, and breathes out, demanding that I look into his eyes—eyes that have since switched.

He’s back.

“Chelsie, darling.” The calluses of his fingertips brush away my tears one by one, pleading for me to stop. “Don’t cry. You… you know how much I hate it when you cry.”

I bite down on my bottom lip, pinching it tightly beneath my teeth as I attempt to slow down the tears, but I can’t. They just keep flowing, and what hurts the most? He’s always the reason for them, and his remorse? Pitiful. For there have been more times Simon’s made me cry these past few months than he’s ever made me smile.

A part of me can’t remember the last time I have.

“Hey, stop.” Simon wraps his less-than-comforting arms around me tightly as I heave in for air, the same way he’s done all these years. Only the man I met when I was 19 isn’t the man I know at 22.

He’s changed.

We’ve changed.

This is no longer what it used to be, and in no way, shape, or form is this what I want for the rest of my life.

“You crying like this is making me feel like I’m the bad guy.” He caresses my hair as it falls down my spine. “You’re making me feel like this is my fault!”

The inflation in his tone is enough for me to receptively wrap my arms around his body, attempting to settle him once more.

I shake my head, wiping my tears away on his shoulder before I peer back up at him. “No… you’re not the bad guy, Simon.”

The words are like poison—making me sick with each syllable.

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