Page 73 of Vengeful Rotten Casualties

There’s no hesitation in Avalon’s response. “Not even a little bit,” she says. She leans forward and grabs another beer from the ice bucket, pops the top, and then tips it back. Once she drains a long swallow, she gasps as she frees her lips from the mouth of the bottle. “I keep thinking,” she continues, “that I should feel some kind of remorse. Shewasmy mom, after all. Dean made me start doing some bullshit therapy and Viks asks me if I forgave her or some garbage like that.”

“But you haven’t?” I guess.

“Fuck no.” Avalon scowls. “Why the fuck should I? She doesn’t deserve forgiveness.”

The bottle in my hand feels lighter after those shots. I lean back and let it hang loosely in my grip. “Not everyone deserves to be forgiven,” I say lightly.

She shakes her head. “No fucking shit, Sherlock.”

“Some people think that forgiveness will give you peace.”

Avalon’s growl is expected and it makes my lips curve upward. It’s good to know she’s still as predictable as ever. “Her death gave me more peace than any dumbass forgiveness I could’ve given her ever would’ve. How can I forgive someone who hurt me? Who tried to sell her own kid? Who tried tokillher own kid?”

I close my eyes and release a slow breath. What Avalon says makes sense, but it’s also what she doesn’t say that gives me insight into her mind. She hasn’t forgiven her mother, but there is someone she probably does need to forgive.Herself.God knows forgiving oneself is the hardest thing to do.

“She was a broken woman,” I comment. It’s not an excuse. It’s certainly not a hope that Avalon will see what I see, but it’s the truth nonetheless.

“She didn’t have to be,” Avalon replies.

“No, she didn’t.”

“She hated me,” Avalon says. “Because she loved my dad, and he died … because of me. She blamed me my whole life and I never even knew it.”

“What does your therapist say?” I ask.

Avalon curses and tosses back another mouthful of beer. I don’t know how many she’s had, but considering that the decanter is half empty—and I have no doubt that it gets refilled nightly—and the other empty bottles hanging around the lounge, it’s likely been quite a bit. She really must hate this whole ‘queen of Eastpoint’ business.

“Viks is ashrink,” she says as if the word is a vile insult. “What the fuck do you think he says? All he fucking does is ask how that makes mefeeland shit.”

I snort. “Feelings aren’t exactly your strong suit.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she snaps back, downing the rest of her bottle and dropping it onto the table between us. Avalon blows out a breath and locks both of her hands over the front edge of the couch’s cushion. “Dean makes it better. He talks me off the ledge when I need it.”

“Still an adrenaline junkie?” I ask.

She jerks her head up and down once.

“You know why that is, don’t you?” I inquire.

Her head comes up and her eyes narrow, though they don’t seem as clear as usual.

“You use it to run away from things you don’t want to deal with,” I answer her unspoken question. “You always have. If you’re not doing it as much then it probably means that you found another way to cope with your shit.” By her own admission, it’s probably something having to do with Dean Carter.

“And how do you cope?” she demands, almost spitefully, as if she wants me to admit that she’s not the only one who’s fucked up. That’s easy though. I’m as fucked up as they come and I’m not afraid to show it. It’s too much effort to hide my scars.

“I don’t,” I answer. “Not well, anyway. Right now my coping mechanism is to plan.” There’s nothing sweeter than cold-blooded revenge, after all. Nothing better for coping with trauma, either.

“I hate losing control,” she says, “and that’s all this fucking shit does to me.”

I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing and instead shoot her own words back at her. “No shit, Sherlock.”

“Oh, fuck you,” she says with a laugh.

I laugh with her, but after a moment, the amusement falls away and there’s just the two of us, sitting there, staring at each other. Wondering where either of us went wrong for the world to treat us so fucking badly. To fuck us over this much. We were human too. Weren’t we? Why us? Why did we have to suffer while others had it so fucking easy?

As if she can see into my mind, Avalon’s breath hitches and she bites down on her lower lip. “I’m pissed at you for leaving,” she finally says. “But I get it—I get why. I don’t think anyone has ever actually put me first, but you … you didn’t drag me into what was going on with you because you were trying to protect me.” And I have no doubt that protection was not something she was used to or comfortable with.

I offer her another smile, though it’s hard to keep on my face. “You don’t have to forgive me, you know,” I tell her. “Whatever your therapist says—you don’t have to forgive anyone. Not your mom. Not me.” I stand up and set my beer bottle on the table. “But even if you don’t forgive anyone else, I hope you forgive yourself one day.”

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