Page 50 of Limbo

The sound lowers, and he returns to the seat across the table from me. “Please continue.”

Attempting to get in my head, Pete hovers over my shoulder. Drinking in moderation for months has wreaked havoc on my alcohol tolerance, but my focus remains unbreakable. My wrist flicks, the quarter bounces off the table, and the coin clatters in the glass.

“Drink,” I tell him.

Pete shakes his head, sitting down next to me. “Just remember, hour four is when you usually lose hand-eye coordination.”

“Bet it’s not the only thing she loses tonight.” Tony winks.

I make a face at him for being an ass. “I’ll take that bet.”

“You sound confident.” Pete grins before taking a sip of whatever random concoction he has in his cup. “Good thing I have plenty of mental images on instant recall.” He taps the side of his head with a finger.

“Me too,” Tony says, mimicking him.

“Mine are better.” Pete effortlessly bounces the quarter into the glass. “Drink.”

I roll my eyes, not impressed with either of them, as I drain my cup. “And here I keep trying to purge the memory of us sleeping together from my brain.”

“Every time or just a specific instance?” Pete asks.

“Remind me again how it happened more than once?”

He grabs his chest, feigning offense. “So cold.”

I give him a cheesy grin and stand up. Even with the unwelcome trip down memory lane, I’ve missed the hell out of him. And Tony. However, I won’t admit to missing Shayna until she stops picking such awful music.

Once the room stops spinning, I leave them to reminisce about me without me. Cold night air rushes my lungs when I step out of Shayna’s trailer, but even outside, the air smothers me, compressing my chest. The handrail her grandmother installed a few years before she passed away helps me down the steps. I ease down on the bottom one and rest my head on the frigid metal pipe bracing the rail. Something I’ve done countless times. It’s strange how time can rewind, careening you back with it to a place you thought you’d left behind forever.

At least, you hoped.

A door slams, and my head jerks in the direction of the truck. Under the streetlights, a stupid square face with floppy hair walks toward me. But I only care about what he is wearing—street clothes.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” Trey smiles, genuinely surprised.

I stand up and mirror his expression until he stops in front of me. His face falls, eyes widening in the split second before my fist connects with his nose. His head snaps back.

“Jesus-fuck, Cal!” He staggers backward, covering his face with his hands.

“You came to my school, Trey. Seriously?” I rush him and knock him back farther, no longer able to ignore the hurt from his betrayal. “How could you?” I’m screeching at this point. “You knew how badly I needed this.”

He attempts to keep me at arm’s length, but drunken fury wins out. I twist around, and my elbow collides with his cheekbone.

“Goddamn it,” he shouts, his patience for me gone.

This time when I charge him, he drops his shoulder and scoops me up. I kick and scream, beating on his back with my fists. Unfazed by my flailing, he carries me across the lawn. My fingers grip the handrail on the way up the steps, but he pries them off one by one before hauling me the rest of the way inside. Not a soul dares to intervene as I continue to thrash around on his shoulder in the kitchen. Tony and Pete even disappear into the living room. Anyone who grew up with us knows we have our own way of handling issues. An unhealthy one but effective nonetheless.

It only takes a few minutes for my legs and arms to tire, and I go limp over his shoulder. He deposits me on the counter without a word. He places one hand on each side of me, and we stare at each other. His nose is bleeding; his cheek is split open and swelling, along with his eye. I huff, still furious with him, but damn it, he looks terrible. And sorry. So very sorry.

My lower lip juts out in apology, but he shakes his head.

“I deserve it, Cal. I deserve it all.”

He steps back, and I slide off the counter. I grab him a beer can from the refrigerator to use as a cold compress. He holds it to his face as he pours us each a shot of tequila.

“Here’s to you forgiving me someday,” he says.

I clink mine to his, take the shot, and slam the empty glass down in front of him. “It’s a start.”

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