Page 53 of Still Beating

I had no idea I put the nails in our goddamn coffins.

Turns out the guy was a run-of-the-mill sales clerk for a company that makes power tools. I had thought at first he was a dirty cop, but the flashing lights on his vehicle were only there to trick his victims into pulling over. You hear about this shit in crime show documentaries—you never even dream about it happening in real life.

I close out of the news articles as my skin heats up with prickling anxiety. I feel physically ill. I’m cursing myself for reading this crap—I’m clearly not ready, and the wounds are still too fresh. Too raw. And I sure as fuck hope that Cora isn’t reading any of it.

I lean back against my couch cushions, closing my eyes as I try to get a handle on my breathing. Two dogs were confiscated off the premises and are being held at animal control. One was a German Shepherd and the other was a Yorkie mix. Neither dogs looked threatening from the photographs. In fact, they looked terrified and malnourished—a far cry from the rabid beasts I’d pictured gnawing on our skeletons. I wonder what kind of horrors Earl subjected those poor animals to.

At least they had each other.

I grab my cell phone off the side table when it starts to vibrate, not overly excited to see Mandy’s name staring back at me. And that makes me feel even shittier than I already do.

Mandy:Can’t wait to see u later babe! Pick u up at 7 :) :)

Mandy is hosting her annual New Year’s Eve bash tonight. Usually, we host it at my townhouse because it’s bigger than her modest two-bedroom apartment, but given my current state of harrowing misery, we both agreed it would be better if she took care of the festivities this year. I honestly had no intention of going—ringing in the new year with a handle of vodka and my progressive rock playlist sounded far more appealing.

But Cora will be there.

I haven’t seen her since that confusing, hangover-infused post-Christmas morning, but we’ve talked on the phone every night since.

We don’t talk about how we woke up in each other’s arms, spooning, our legs impossibly entwined and my hand up her tank top.

The timeline of those early morning hours is hazy at best. I vaguely recall an Uber ride with a driver I was convinced was Kurt Cobain, and I kept asking for his autograph, followed by the smell of Cora’s daffodil hair quieting my demons and her warm breath against my neck lulling me to sleep. I remember a nightmare forcing me awake. And I remember eventually falling into the most comfortable sleep I’ve had in almost two months… despite the raging migraine I woke up to at almost noon the next day.

When Cora finally untangled herself from my arms and our eyes met, there was an unspoken promise that we would never speak of it again.

So, we haven’t.

And sometimes we don’t speak much at all—simply knowing the other one is on the opposite end of the line, breathing and alive, safe and warm, is a solace in itself.

“Oh, my God, Dean!”

“You look good!”

“Thank goodness you’re okay!”

I wouldn’t say I lookgood, but I did manage to find a clean shirt that didn’t smell like last week, and I finally made the effort to shave, leaving just a shadow of stubble along my jaw.

And I wouldn’t say I’mokay. But I’m here with a fake-as-fuck smile on my face, so I suppose it’s a step in the right direction.

As familiar faces and curious strangers crowd me with questions and compliments, I clench the spout of the beer in my hand, wondering if I could crack the glass with just my fist.

After all, my hands have broken far worse.

Mandy slides up behind me, snaking her arms around my midsection and holding tight. I feel her press kisses into the middle of my back, and I raise my unoccupied hand to pat her clasped palms. “Good party,” I mutter.

I’m lying. The party is awful and my head is pounding, and I feel like everything is spinning. There are people here I used to consider good friends that I haven’t given a single thought to over the course of the last seven weeks. Are they even my friends? Am I completely desensitized to human connection?

I turn to see Cora walk through the door with her friend, Lily, bathed in sparkly silver and skinny jeans, her hair glowing with fresh highlights and a look in her eyes that resembles a cornered animal. My heart does a funny flip inside my chest, and I know that I’m notcompletelydesensitized.

Cora puts the brakes on after stepping through the threshold, grasping Lily’s hand and tugging the brunette backwards. The music is too loud to hear what they’re saying, but Lily scrubs her hand up and down over Cora’s arm, comforting her in some way. Likely telling her that it’s not so bad. It will be just fine.

She’s a liar, Cora. It’s a trap.

Mandy notices her sister’s arrival and unlinks her arms from my waist, making a tipsy, enthusiastic jog over to Cora, who still appears frozen and ashen in the entryway. I sip my beer, watching the scene from afar, taking in the way Mandy pulls Cora in for a hug like life is raining down with sunshine and puppy dogs.

Cora’s eyes meet mine over Mandy’s shoulder and I lower my beer, offering her a small, understanding smile. She sends the same one back to me. But before I’m able to approach her to say hello, I’m sucked into a conversation with one of my good friends, Reid. He slaps my shoulder, looking genuinely happy to see me, and we spend about fifteen minutes catching up—well, he catchesmeup. I’m certain Reid has no desire to hear what I’ve been up to since we last saw each other in October.

When I break away to grab another beer, I find Cora in the kitchen clinging to her red plastic cup, engaging in conversation with Lily and a familiar looking guy I presume to be Jason. I pull a fresh beer out of the cooler and glance in their direction, deciding that I was absolutely correct: I don’t like Jason.

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