Page 34 of On the Line

Did he just…

“Let?” Angry tears well up in my eyes as my voice grows higher and higher as I speak. “I didn’tletSpencer do anything. I waspassed out, you fucking monster.”

It’s my turn to charge him, shoving him hard in the chest. The tears spill but I continue, suddenly desperate for the words to exist outside of me, instead of rotting, festering inside of my body. “I was fucking passed out!” I scream. “And you just watched as your best friendrapedme.” I shove him again. “You did fucking nothing to stop him!”

He’s laughing. He’s fucking laughing, and I feel like I’m dying.

“If you say so, Jamie,” he spits, pushing me hard enough for me to fall backward, landing on the floor close to the bed. “That may be true but no one would believe you.”

I watch him storm out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

The silence hurts and I feel the sharp claws of hysteria start to dig their way into my brain.

The sobs that eventually follow wreak havoc through my body, painful and distressing. Picking myself up, I lock my door, and undress in a fit of rage, practically ripping my dress off, and end up on the shower floor weeping for the next hour.

The pain flowing out of me is ever-expanding, I never seem to reach the end, even after I’ve calmed down into a state of emotional stupor. It just throbs under my skin, every beat of my heart reminding me how much it hurts to be alive.

14

JAMES

It’s after midnight. I can hear the party winding down from my bedroom window, people still linger in handfuls around the garden, wine-drunk and mouths full of gossip.

As expected, even if this was technically my party, no one came to look for me.

But this time I’m grateful for the lack of interest.

My thoughts are slow. They feel like they’re caught in a giant vat of petroleum jelly, everything sticks and drags, sticks and drags. I’m tapped out, emotionally eviscerated. My sobs turned into sniffles about an hour ago, I’ve been staring at the mess Zachary made on the floor ever since.

I should clean that up.

The only place I’ve ever seen a broom in this house is the utility closet near the kitchen. I roll my eyes, and huff. That’s downstairs. I have a fleeting thought that Zachary might still be somewhere around, but knowing him he most likely left after our fight.

It takes me another minute to get myself to stand up from the edge of my bed.

I walk out of my bedroom in a sage green sweatsuit set, my hair pulled into a bun and no makeup. Maybe old James would bother to still look put together for strangers in her own home, but I no longer care. I also don’t give two shits if it would embarrass my mother.

What’s she going to do? Kick me out?

I’ve already left.

The marble tiles are cool under my bare feet as I walk through the wide hallway connecting the foyer to the kitchen. My steps stutter to a stop when I notice someone leaning over the double sinks, their back to me. My eyes roam over their shoulders, their arms with the sleeves rolled up to their elbows, and a shock of curly hair.

“What are you doing here?” I blurt out while I simultaneously consider pulling a one-eighty and leaving before he notices me. I guess my mouth made the decision for me.

Ozzy’s head tilts to the side, turning off the tap before swinging around.

His chef jacket is half-unbuttoned, his trusty navy blue bandana keeping his curly hair out of his eyes, and I’ve never seen a man be so effortlessly hot. His smirk dimples his left cheek while he grabs his rag from over his shoulder to dry off his hands, but it fades quickly from his lips.

Eyebrows dipping low, worry carves a divot between them. “Are you okay, Jimbo?”

Hearing the playful nickname, which originally sounded grating, now soothes something inside of me and the irrational urge to burst out crying battles with my need to save face.

My first reflex is to lie.

I’m fine. Everything is fine.

But watching Ozzy’s ocean eyes convey such genuine concern towards me makes a wall crumble somewhere inside of me, and I shake my head, bottom lip shaking.

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