Page 54 of This Life and All the Rest
I move to my desk and open the drawer, reaching into the far back and feeling around for the hair scissors I bought last month so I could give myself bangs. Sam joked that bangs meant I hit rock bottom. I laughed it off. She had no idea.
I stand back in front of the mirror, this time ignoring my naked body and zeroing in on my thighs and the array of cuts there. Some are starting to heal. Some are fresh. I use the scissors to scrape the scabs off a few of the cuts, making them bleed again, and then I find an untouched spot on my skin.
I brush my thumb over it softly. I grab my vodka bottle and take a drink, then close my eyes and summon Macon.
Just as he forms in my mind, I replace my thumb with the scissors, and I drag the sharp end slowly until it breaks skin. I know the right amount of pressure to apply now. Enough to hurt. Enough to bleed.
I open my eyes and stare at the fresh cut as the blood wells. I use my thumb to smear it, then push hard, sharpening the sting. When that doesn’t hurt enough, I grab the vodka bottle and pour some over the cut. I wince at the burn and breathe through my nose.
I feel it, and slowly, the tears stop.
I pull a makeup wipe out of my drawer and gently rub it over the cut, then I pull on some jeans. They’ll rub against it. It’ll probably start bleeding again. I don’t care.
I don’t care about anything. I prefer it that way.
SEVENTEEN
It’s almostmidnight when I walk back to my apartment, but something inside me knows that Lennon isn’t asleep.
I told her I’d be an hour, but it’s been almost two. I bailed on Nic twice before tonight, so she insisted we make up for it. And I think she was punishing me, too. My leg throbs.
I open the door slowly and step inside, kicking off my shoes. My shoulders are tense. The energy in the apartment is charged, and not in a good way. I’m two steps into the kitchen when Lennon greets me with a bored expression, her carry-on sitting at her feet. I drag my eyes from her suitcase to her face.
“You goin’ somewhere?”
“To a hotel.” She stands from the barstool and grabs the handle of her suitcase. “I told you I didn’t want to cramp your style.”
Her tone is nonchalant, and her movements are fluid, but I can tell she’s pissed. She takes a step toward the hallway, but I block her path.
“You’re not cramping my style, whatever the fuck that means, and you’re not going to a hotel right now.” I reach down to grab her suitcase handle, but she yanks it back. “Don’t be stubborn, Lennon. It’s fucking midnight.”
She hits me with an icy glare that burns my skin.
“I’m not being stubborn,” she says coolly. “I’m removing myself from a situation that doesn’t suit me.”
I huff out a laugh, my eyes wide. A few hours ago, we were having a good conversation, and now this?
“Doesn’t suit you?” I repeat incredulously. “What the fuck does that even mean? I don’t have the right kind of French coffee for your morning cappuccino? The lighting in my studio not up to par?”
She tries to push past me, but I step in front of her again.
“What doesn’t suit you,Capri, huh? Is this about your French fuck? What’s his name? Franklin?”
I spit the words knowing full well they will piss her off, and she shoves hard at my chest.
“ThatFrench fuckis myfriend,” she says. “And he wouldneverput me in a situation that made me feel so shitty.”
“What the hell did I do to you now?” I hiss, and she flinches.
The flinch gets me right in the gut. It’s like my question was a punch to her jaw, and I immediately feel guilty.
Lennon blinks a few times, then meets my eyes. Hers are emotionless.
“You said an hour,” she says slowly. “You’ve been gone for two.”
My jaw drops and I slap my hands at my sides.
“That’swhat this is about? Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it would take that long.”
