Page 150 of Life of the Party

I smirked mirthlessly at myself. I felt dead. I looked dead.

Why fight it?

Slowly, I sunk back down onto the bed, tracing a finger down the ragged bloody scabs slashed across my wrist…and realized I wanted to die. There was nothing left for me here. Death would end it all, end all the pain, all the hopelessness. The thought actually gave me hope in a crazy, desperate sort of way. Knowing I had an out, that I wouldn’t be forced to suffer through this agony forever, it relieved me. It almost made the day…bearable. I would go to the funeral. I would endure. And if it got too bad…

I had a plan.

Before Charlie or any of my other guardians could see, I shoved everything I’d need—all my supplies, the balloon full of drugs, the needle, the spoon—roughly into my purse. I held it there on my lap a moment, and for just a brief second, I felt less helpless. This was something I could do, some way to take control again.

His funeral. Grey’s funeral. I was so determined not to remember anything and so strung out it mostly became a blur. A sickening blur interrupted by sudden moments of utter clarity. Like I wasn’t permitted to just sit and observe the whole thing like a cold, detached bystander—like I’d hoped. I was being forced to feel, to live through these horrible, devastating moments of lucidity before the blur would come again, swallowing me up, protecting me from the torment.

My parents were there. They hugged me the moment we pulled up at the church. I was ready to blame them, to call them out for their actions, to see if they were happy now that Grey was dead. But then they hugged me and I didn’t know what to do. I let them wrap their arms around me, let myself feel their warmth, let myself hear howsorry they were, how much they professed to love me. My resolve crumbled. They led us through the foyer and into a back room to hide until the service began.

The church reminded me of Marcy’s wedding. Candles glowed softly and flowers were everywhere, but this time, they weren’t white. They were black—black calla lilies on graceful green stems, placed artfully in cut glass vases. They were perfect. Grey would’ve loved them.

I whispered lowly in Charlie’s ear. “…Who? Who did all this?” I wondered. Grey didn’t have any family. I was his family. And I doubted that Tom and the band…

“Your parents did it.” She answered. “They’ve done everything. They’ve been so great, Mackenzie. They paid for it all.”

“What?” I couldn’t believe it. “But they hate Grey.”

“No.” Charlie shook her head. “They don’t.”

I bit my lip. Tears warmed my eyes. Marcy got a wedding, I got a funeral.

It was fitting, almost.

When the service finally started, Charlie gripped me tightly by the hand and helped me walk down the long aisle, past the countless pairs of sympathetic eyes to a pew at the front of the church. I was amazed by the amount of people present to honour Grey’s memory, people I’d never seen before, people I’d never met. I should have expected it though. Grey had that affect on people—he touched them, he warmed his way into their hearts without them even knowing. He was popular, he was loved.

He was gone.

Alex, Zack, Tom, and the rest of the band filed into the pew beside us. We were considered Grey’s family. The Minister started speaking, but I couldn’t listen. I couldn’t do anything but stare at the large, gleaming oak casket that dominated the stage of the church, holding the body of the man I loved. He was in there, he was inside. I raised a shaky hand to my mouth in an attempt to quiet the sudden sob that burst through my lips. He was so near to me, but he was so far away, forever removed.

A large picture sat next to the coffin on an easel; Grey’s gorgeous face in life—his blue eyes shining, a smirk dimpling his stubbled cheek. I stared at his picture as the tears flooded my eyes, as they fell cascading down my cheeks.

No amount of heroin could have prevented this hurt.

I felt it in the deepest pit of my soul, felt the terrible yearning for someone forever lost to me, the desperate longing for something I would never know again.

We drove out to the cemetery. I couldn’t see him, but somewhere, deep inside me, I knew Riley was there. He was keeping his distance, which I could understand, but he wouldn’t have left me to do this alone. I suppose the thought should have comforted me. At the moment, I was beyond comforting.

Before Grey’s coffin was lowered into the ground, I set a rose on the shining lid. I pressed my hand against the silky lacquered wood, tears pouring freely—and in that instant my mind was made up.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it without him. It was too hard. Even with the drugs, it was unbearable. There was no point living. Not without him.

I cried the hardest as we pulled away from the cemetery. It didn’t feel right to just leave him there, alone. Wouldn’t he get cold? What if he was afraid?

I didn’t say goodbye to Grey then. More like…see you soon.

After, we went back to my parents’ house. They were hosting a luncheon, which touched me, deeply—but was something I wanted no part of. The house was packed, but I didn’t want to socialize, I didn’t want to accept condolences. I stole one of my father’s super thick winter coats and escaped outside, leaning against the house and chain-smoking. I could feel the nausea hitting, my stomach churning, the craving pulsing within me. This was the longest I’d gone without heroin in weeks. I knew I couldn’t hold out much longer.

Nor did I want to. I was exhausted, weary, ready for everything to be over. I clutched my purse against my chest and threw my cigarette butt into the snow.

Everything felt strangely clear—sharpened, almost—as I walked back into the house and hung my dad’s coat up in the closet. My steps had purpose for the first time in what felt like eternity. I’d been so lost for so long. It felt good to have direction again.

I slipped through the crowd of mourners in their dark dresses and suits, up the stairs and into the bathroom. I made sure to lock the door this time. I set my supplies out on the counter, slowly and methodically. I wouldn’t let myself think of my family, my parents, my sister, Blake—the sixty-year-old man stuck in the twenty-something body—my friends. I wouldn’t let myself picture Charlie or Alex or Zack, or Toby and Ben. Or Riley. I refused to think of Riley. They’d all just have to understand. It was way too hard.

It was kind of poetic, in a way, going out the same way Grey had. At least it would be peaceful. And quick. I put as much heroin on the spoon as it would hold, diluting it just enough to make it liquid. The mix was dark—darker than normal—much, muchstronger than normal. I heated it all, sucking up the lethal combination until the syringe was nearly full.

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