Page 55 of Finding Delaware

This is the Huckslee whose mother left him, whose father will disown him, whose best friend will turn his back on him.

Whose stepbrother just broke his fucking heart.

And I hate this Huckslee. Hate the sight of this broken mess sobbing so hard that vessels in hiseyes are blowing out. Hate the man cursing a God he no longer believes in for making him this way.

I can’t change me.I can’t fucking change me.

And I’m tired of trying.

My fist connects with my reflection, shattering the image staring back at me to match my soul, glass, and crimson raining down over the sink.

The distorted, authentic version of Huckslee gazes down at the bottle white-knuckled in his bleeding grip. He’s unscrewing the lid, lifting the pill bottle to his mouth as one last sob leaves his throat.

He tips it back. Swallows.

And swallows.

Until there’s nothing left of him to change at all.

Taylor

Ithought I fucked up the night I broke Huckslee’s arm, but that was child’s play compared to this.

BecauseI fucked up.

Tonight, I did something so despicable and unforgivable that I’ll spend the rest of my life hating myself for it.

The minute I saw Huck’s face when he realized I’d opened the curtain, I wanted to take it back. To change it. Rewind time to that night in the pool or when I kissed him on the track; rewrite our fucking stars becausewe can’t come back from this.

I know I’ve lost him. With that one look, I felt whatever thread of fate that connected us obliterate, shredding my heart in its wake.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I’d been so blinded by rage, by jealousy at his lips on someone else and the fucking scholarship, that I hurt him in the worst way possible. Worse than anything I’ve ever done.

I’m racing out into the crowd, hollering at Christian to give me his fucking keys before booking it toward the parking lot. There’s a rising panic in my bones, warning bells blaring at me that something is really wrong, and I need to get to Huck quickly.

Pulling out my phone, I intend to call him to apologize, beg him for forgiveness, and plead with him not to hate me when a text from an unknown number catches my attention.

Unknown: Hello Taylor, this is Bill Shulz with the Motorsports Park. I’ve been trying to reach you for a week regarding your scholarship. I would appreciate it if you could give me a call as soon as possible, as the details of your scholarship are time-sensitive. Thank you.

I’m almost to Christian’s Bronco when I come to a halt, reading over the message two more times.

What the fuck?

Pressing the call button, I wait as it rings several times before someone picks up.

“Taylor Tottman, as I live and breathe,” a gravelly voice answers on the other line, “you’ve been hard to get a hold of, son.”

“Uh, hi. Bill Shulz?”

The man laughs. “The one and only. Look, Taylor, we have some paperwork down here at the track we need you to sign before we can submit your scholarship for the coming school year. Can you come in tomorrow?”

Fighting the icy dread clawing through my veins, I jump into the car and start it up. “Um, forgive me, Mr.Shulz, but I’m a little confused. I thought Huckslee Davis won the scholarship? He won the race.”

There’s a pause. “Did he not tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Frowning, I tap the speaker button and toss the phone onto the passenger seat to handle the shifter. Putting the Bronco into gear, I whip onto the street toward Huck’s house. Something in the back of my skull is screaming at me tohurry, hurry, hurry.

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