Page 42 of Taste of Addiction

“I need to be single right now and focus on graduation.” It’s not exactly a lie, but it isn’t the whole truth either. I am very much involved with Graham—secret or not. I know where we stand.

“His face is splashed all over the tabloids and Internet,” Zander adds. “Hooking up with some model who works for him. I think her name is Sophie? Or Sophia?”

His words are matter-of-fact, but I doubt with the intention to cause me unnecessary hurt. Zander is not an asshole. He is just reminding me of how shitty the situation is. Like I need reminding.

I get up from the couch and pace the room. My vision is off but I just suffer through the flashes from the migraine. “Are you saying this just to make me upset? Do you think I don’t know all of this already?”

“I’m just pointing out that if you were with me, I wouldn’t just dump you and break your heart like that. I wouldn’t just hop to the next girl, because you are it for me.”

I sigh and push my hair behind my shoulders. “I can’t be what you need, Zander. It was a mistake asking you here.”

“I can’t do anything with your flash drive anyway. The device is corrupt, and everything you saved on your hard drive is corrupt too. You have a pretty serious virus, maybe even some malware. Would probably be best for you to just get a new device or reformat the entire thing to the basics. It’s just hard to gut a laptop. So I would lean toward getting a new one.”

“Fuck!” I yell. “I have a draft due tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, but the apology is flat. “Let me know if you want to rekindle ourfriendship.”

“Don’t you mean,dateyou?” I correct.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean,” he says, walking out the front door.

Like a foundation built with cards, I crash to my knees, weeping. “I’m sorry!” I bellow. “I’m fucking sorry!”

Zander joins me on the floor, hugging me to him. Tears run down his face, and for the first time in what feels like a month, I see him genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry too.”

“I never wanted to hurt you.” My words come out in sniffles. “I miss being friends. Are we never going to move past this?”

He helps me off the floor and escorts me back to the couch, plopping down onto the cushions as well. He places his head into his hands, and I can tell he is struggling. I am struggling too.

“I’m sorry,” I echo. I really am. I never expected to fall so hard for Graham that even when he pisses me off or does something to make me question his ethics, I still cannot deny the way he makes me feel.

Zander lifts his head, tears visibly forming in his eyes. “I’m the biggest jerk on the planet, Angie. I allowed what I wanted to supersede what you needed. I can see that now. I can see that despite being broken up with Graham, he still very much has your heart. Probably always will. Yeah, it sucks.” He waves his hands into the air. “All of this sucks. But I’d have always regretted not making the effort—even if you were destined to reject me multiple times.”

“I’m not rejecting you from my life, Z. There’s room for you in it. I just cannot give you what you think your heart wants.”

He nods, placing his face into his hands again. “I get it. It took me long enough, but I get it. I’m really sorry for making you feel so badly about all of this. I’m sorry about The Shack. About everything.”

I wrap my arms around his back. “I forgive you.”

“I’m not sure I deserve it.”

“You’re a good man, Zander. One day you’re going to find a girl who wants exactly what you are willing to give.”

He gets up from the couch, offering me a weak smile, while walking backward toward the front door. “I hope she’s as amazing as you are to me.”

As soon as he leaves, I feel the start of a nervous breakdown. I stumble into the kitchen and dig out the hard stuff from the bottom cabinet that Claire and I used for our past Monday night rituals. Those days are over. Not only did the TV show end, but Resa left. And despite not really enjoying college, she was forced out by some men looking for their next victim.

And no matter how hard I try to give these girls a voice, it is like the world is trying to silence them.

I pour a shot of tequila into a glass and throw it back. I chase it down with a second. I have no idea if I measured them correctly, but the familiar burn makes me think I did something right.

I flop down onto the couch in the living room and stare at the message about the corrupt files that taunts me on the screen of the laptop. I kick my foot out and launch it to the floor.

My phone rings beside me, and I struggle to find it in the cushions of the couch. I wrestle it out and answer it with, “Wha?”

“Sweetheart?”

“Yup?”

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