Page 11 of Twisted Minds

“Nope. Don’t ruin it.” Standing, he grimaces, and pain flashes across his features. “Let’s save us both some time going forward. I’m never doing okay. I’m never alright. Don’t ask. No, I am not going to unalive myself despite you and Xavi pretending you’re both not on suicide watch. I would never do that to my mother after everything this year. She’s lost enough. Besides, I want to live every day like this. I want to be in as much pain as physically possible and still breathe. It’s what I deserve. I will live out whatever miserable, pathetic life is laid out for me, and nothing and no one will fucking stop me. Not even myself.”

I feel my eyes sting with heat. I fucking hate this. Swallowing, I can’t meet his eyes, and struggle to keep the tears that want to spill at bay. I can’t imagine being him. Seeing him like this and knowing the hell he lives in is the only reason I give him grace. “I’m sorry. I won’t ask.”

Jamie surprises the shit out of me, hugging me tight from behind. For a moment I sink into the warm touch, and my shockbroadens when he plants a quick kiss on the side of my head then lets me go. “I’m not going to off myself while you’re at school. Just relax. I’m not going anywhere.”

Isn’t that what someone would say, though, if they wanted to? The thing is I believe him, and more importantly, I know he’d never hurt his mother like that. Or us, I like to think. Lia is his world, and I know he doesn’t want to cause her any more pain.

Squeezing my shoulder, he grabs his cup and puts it in the sink. “Get some sleep, Hunter, you look like shit.”

As he walks out of the room, I know he said not to but I can’t help myself. “Jamie.” He turns in the doorway, looking at me. Jesus. Jamie’s only twenty-two but he looks ten years older. I guess a lifetime of abuse and grief would do that to anyone. “If you need someone to talk to, I’m always here.” His jaw ticks before he shakes his head and walks out the door.

Whatever. I’ll call this progress.

five

Mark

The words on Mr. Erickson’s chalkboard blur in a never-ending string of numbers that don’t make sense. Calculus is one of my easier classes. While I don’t do well in history or English, math is where I shine.

At least, it is on a good day.

Today is not a good day.

Looking up, I dare a peek down the row of students at Noah busily writing down whatever our professor is talking about. As if he can feel me watching, he looks up, narrowing his eyes before giving me the finger.

I don’t want a relationship with him—in my mind it’s just sex—I didn’t realize until he stopped talking to me how much I relied on his text messages every day. They’ve become part of my everyday routine, and I really miss them . . . really miss talking and hanging out with him. My head’s was firmly up my own ass and I have to make it right.

I’m an asshole.

An asshole who’s going to make this up to him.

BUZZZZZ

Jumping in my seat, I knock over the pencils on my desk and they clatter to the ground in what may as well be a gong. The lecture stops. Everyone’s eyes swing to me. Fucking phone! “Sorry.”

Looking more annoyed by the second, Mr. Erickson returns to his lesson, and I pick up my pencils with as much grace and subtlety as a bull in an antique store. My phone vibrates again but this time it doesn’t scare the living shit out of me or make as much sound with it tucked into my hoodie.

Taking a deep breath, I try to calm my heart and ease the anxiety racing through my blood. Finally, I take it out and unlock it. My lunch turns to lead as I read the five missed messages. I know who they’re all from before even looking at them and that I can’t avoid him any longer.

Dickwad:

Meet me at 2 outside the science wing

Mark????

You wouldn’t be avoiding me??!!!??? That would be real fuckin stupid

We need to talk

*media sent*

With shaky hands I open the photo without text. It doesn’t need to have any because the message is loud and clear. Derrick is so graciously reminding me why I’m in this situation to beginwith. It’s a photo of me from the night of the bonfire—drink in hand, watch on my wrist.

The same watch that was found at the crime scene.

The same watch that conveniently fell off my wrist.

The same watch that is one of a kind and priceless in more ways than one.

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