Page 25 of Revelry
I shouldn’t have come at all.
“What is your problem?”
Her small voice had grown in size, and it stopped me in my tracks.
“I ask you to tell me something real, and you run off like it’s the worst thing you’ve heard?” Momma Von tried to quiet her, but she kept going, and I kept my back to all of them. “All night, everyone is telling all these stories about how fun you are, howcrazyyou are, but I don’t see it. I don’t know who that person was or why he changed, but whatever the reason, it doesn’t give you the right to be an asshole to me.”
“Alright, Wren,” Yvette said this time, and I turned, watching as both she and Momma Von moved in on Wren. Yvette touched one arm, and Wren swayed a bit, steadying herself when Momma Von was close enough to hold onto. She was messed up, and my nose flared as her eyes hardened on mine again.
“No,” she slurred. “No, I’ve taken enough shit from assholes in my life.” She stood straighter, like she had something to prove, and opened her mouth to say something else. But she stopped, huffing, as if it wasn’t even worth her time. She turned to Momma Von. “I want to go home.”
“Okay, peaches, let’s get you home, then.”
Momma Von glanced at me but I just turned again, feet moving faster this time, all the way down the drive. My cabin was only minutes away, but every step burned my skin more and more. My fists clenched in my pockets and I gritted my teeth, using every ounce of power I had not to slam my front door once I was inside.
Dani stared at me from her table, and I growled, ripped my sweater over my head, and jogged up the stairs. Auto pilot kicked in, shower started, clothes thrown, and once the hot water hit my back, I let out one long breath, pinching the bridge of my nose and bracing the other hand on the wall in front of me.
Sarah had called me Rev not too many nights before and it’d barely fazed me. I told her not to call me that again, and that was it. But hearing the name from Wren’s lips, from someone who didn’t know the meaning, who didn’t knowme—it stirred something that had been lying dormant for years.
And then she’d screamed at me like we’d been friends forever, like she deserved to know more about me. She’d called me an asshole, and at that thought, all I could do was lean my forehead against the cool tile.
Because if nothing else, she was right about that.
I let the water run cold, finally shutting it off when I was shivering. It’d been a long time since I’d felt numb, but the familiarity of it was welcomed as I toweled off and slipped on a pair of sweats before climbing into bed. I trained my eyes on the ceiling, shaking my head every time I replayed the night in my head.
Did I really think it’d be so simple? That I’d walk into a party full of friends I’d abandoned almost seven years ago and we’d all, what? Pal around? And that I’d maybe get to know the new girl in town, who’d been stuck in my head for God knows what reason all week?
But I had nothing to give her—nothing. Not even an answer to the first genuine question I’d been asked by a girl in years. Maybe ever.
She asked me for something real, and I had nothing.
At least now I knew.
BREAK
\'brak\
Verb
To separate into parts with suddenness or violence
Keith used to always make me coffee.
We had a morning routine, one that consisted of a dance of sorts. I’d brush my teeth while he shaved, then he’d breeze past me to get dressed while I put on makeup. He’d always step back in just as I started straightening my hair, and he’d smack my ass with an appreciative smile, fastening his tie, and he’d ask, “How sweet is my girl today?”
The answer was always different—sweeter than your mom’s chocolate pie, about as sweet as a judge, or sometimes just a glare—and that’s how he knew what kind of coffee to brew. By the time I was dressed, he’d have his briefcase in one hand and my cup of coffee in the other, sweetened somewhere between black and liquid candy. He’d pass it to me, kiss my cheek, and then he was out the door.
It was the good times, the moments like that, that seemed brightest in my memory. It was harder to remember the nights he yelled, the nights he ignored me, the nights I went to bed wondering what I’d done wrong, only to have to wait a week to find out when he was drunk. Our minds are selective like that, almost like a defense mechanism that somehow harms us more than it helps us.
Keith used to make me coffee, and maybe that’s why his name was the one I called out the next morning when I woke to the smell of a fresh pot brewing.
“Nope, just me,” Momma Von answered.
I cracked one lid open, instantly squeezing it shut again when the light assaulted me. Momma Von grabbed my hand and moved it to the mug, waiting until I had a sturdy grip before she stood and threw the curtains open wider.
“Ack!”
“If you think that hurts, just wait.”
