Page 105 of Finding Delaware

“Uh.” I grimace as my stomach churns again when I think about Taylor and Blondie. “Partly. When I’m like that, though, I sometimes get tunnel vision and don’t really notice what’s happening around me until it’s over.”

It’s pretty much the truth, especially if it’s bad. When I first got to California, I came to once in the middle of a grocery aisle surrounded by concerned shoppers and had no clue how long I’d been freaking out. It took a long while, constant therapy sessions, and the right meds to finally make the anxiety and panic attacks less debilitating.

A frown pulls at my lips. Speaking of therapy, I haven’t had a session in months. Maybe my therapist back in Cali can do a FaceTime or a Zoom call…

“So what set you off?” Relief softens Matthew’s features as my words register, even though it’s a lie. I did, in fact, see something, but I’m not about to say anything.

I’m not Taylor.

The thought brings a fresh batch of knife wounds to my gut.

Taylor...was in that bathroom with Blondie. Probably getting his dick sucked by the looks of it.

Why does the thought of him with someone else tear me up like this? He’s my stepbrother, for fucks sake. We’re not...we’re not anything to each other.

Just each other’s first kiss and first love.

First and only person to ever break your heart.

And just like that, the anger is back, pulling me into its poison, eating away at whatever feelings I may have had toward Taylor ten minutes ago before I saw him banging some stranger in a dive bar bathroom.

Fuck you, asshole.

Spinning away from Matt, I head back through the door, seething and aching with rage. “I need another drink.”

He follows behind, those big feet of his clunking along the floor. “Look, I don’t want to be a downer, but maybe you should slow down, Huckslee.”

No. Hell no.

“And why would I do that when Taylor so generously offered me all the alcohol I can drink?”

He curses as we step into the bar area again and peels away, muttering something along the lines of ‘gonna tell that stupid idiot to close the damn tab.’

Royce looks up from his phone when I appear beside him, looking relieved and shaken. “Hey, I just texted you. Are you okay? Your stepbrother was over here like two seconds ago asking where you went–”

“I’m fine, but he’s about to close his tab. Let’s go order as much shit as we can.”

And we do. Seriously, I should feel bad at the table in front of me lined with a shot of every bottle they have in the bar, but I don’t. (Which, according to Google, is very much illegal,but Juanita seems to march to the beat of her own drum, and I think she’s my new best friend.)

Mixing liquor is never a good idea. The more Royce and I drink and dance, though, the less I give a shit. Whatever booze I threw up is quickly replaced, and I feel Taylor’s eyes on me the entire time. Blondie is nowhere to be seen, but he’s watching me with an expression I can’t read whenever I glance over at the pool table.

I fucking hate it.

I fucking hate him.

For making me feel this way. For never getting out of my head. For hurting me.

But mostly, I hate myself for hurting him back.

The longer the night goes on, the drunker I get. I don’t even think we finish all the shots, vaguely remembering Royce handing them out like candy. I think he quit drinking a while ago, but I can’t seem to stop.

The longer Taylor stares, the more I want to forget him. Forget his bright eyes that can’t seem to pick a fucking color, forget the way he kisses even though it’s never left my mind in over four years, forget the joy on his face from building a fucking snowman. Even the feel of his mouth on my cock, which is so sick and twisted that I’m even thinking about that.

Sick and twisted.

Toxic.

He’s no good for you, Royce said.

---