Page 62 of Still Beating

The flickering light I’ve carried with me since the day this all began, the hope of better days, the glimmer of promise that someday, one day, everything will be bright again, extinguishes right then and there. I feel cold and dark and empty.

And so very alone.

I nod, slow and sure, silently admitting my defeat, then I turn to exit her vehicle without looking back. If this is what she wants—if this is what sheneeds—I have no other choice but to walk away. And even though I hear her crying, sobbing her heart out into the starry night through the cracked car window, I keep on walking.

I walk straight towards Mandy, standing in the middle of the parking lot hugging herself, her own tears of betrayal slipping down flushed cheeks.

“Mandy…” I say, picking up my pace so I can reach her, get to her, try to explain something I can’t even explain to myself.

But she whips around, her hair flying over her shoulder like a curtain closing. Mandy gets into her own car and speeds out of the parking lot as Cora’s car follows behind a few moments later. I’m left abandoned in The Broken Oar parking lot on a frosty January night.

It’s fine, I say, stumbling back until my foot hits a curb, and I collapse onto a patch of grass.

It’s okay.

I’ve slept in worse places.

Chapter Eighteen

My head is poundingwhen I wake up the next morning to a muted light trickling in through a nearby window. At first, I think I’m back in that basement. It’s day number sixty-three and the endless cycle of torture and mind-numbing madness continues. I instinctively begin tugging at chains that don’t exist, and when I snap back to reality in a cold sweat, I realize that the chainsdostill exist—they are the invisible kind.

Those might be the worst kind.

I rub the sleep from my eyes with the heels of my palms, sitting up on my elbows and taking in my surroundings.

I’m in Mandy’s bedroom.

“Good morning.”

My head flicks to the right. Mandy is sitting beside me, holding a glass of water and a bottle of Advil, her expression somewhat melancholy. Mandy drove back to the bar to pick me up five minutes later, too wracked with guilt to leave me there. I was grateful… though, I wonder if I truly deserved the courtesy. She brought me back to her apartment, and I plowed through the leftover alcohol from her New Years party, passing out a few hours later.

I sit up all the way, leaning back against her blush pink, upholstered headboard. I pop three pills and drink the water she hands to me, then set the glass down on the nightstand, sighing as I run a hand along my face. “I’m sorry.”

I’ve been saying that word a lot lately.

I’m sorry I’m still fighting a battle I can’t win. I’m sorry I’m a mess, drinking away my problems. I’m sorry my head is filled with dark, depressing thoughts that often consume me. I’m sorry I can’t touch the woman I’m supposed to marry. I’m sorry I can’t fix the woman who won’t let go of my heart.

I’m sorry I keep fucking up.

I’m sorry I’m wasting my second chance.

Mandy looks over at me with her raccoon eyes and mess of blonde hair. “You left me alone in the bar, stuck paying the dinner bill, to chase my sister into her car, Dean.”

Shit.

I’mreallysorry for that.

“It’s not what you think, Mandy. It’s not… it’s not like that. We’re trying to get through this shit together, and I’m not handling it well.” I puff my cheeks with air and let out a hard breath. “There’s no handbook, or guide, orSurviving Life After Earl’s Torture Chamber For Dummies. There’s literally no one else out there like us because he murdered them all. We’re an anomaly—we’re not supposed to be here, and it’s fucking me up.”

Mandy reaches out a tentative hand, resting it atop my own. “I’m trying to be patient, I really am. But when you’re always running to her and away from me, it hurts. I should be the one helping you through this. I should be your anchor.”

“I know,” I say, my voice pitching. “Trust me, I know.”

She squeezes my fingers in her warm hand, offering me a wistful smile. “Maybe you need medication…” she suggests.

“I’m not sick, Mandy.”

“Youaresick. You have PTSD… you were tossing and turning all night, sometimes yelling and shaking the bed. You haven’t figured out your car situation, or when you’re going back to work, or how you’re going to pay for anything when your savings runs out. You drink all day, every day. You haven’t said a word about the wedding. You won’t touch me or kiss me—in fact, it seems like you don’t even want me around.” Mandy ducks her head, biting back tears. “You’re not okay, and I don’t know how to help you.”

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