Page 53 of Ecstasy
Zara wants to go home.
I don’t really want her to. I don’t know what she’ll get into by herself, but she makes it pretty clear she doesn’t want me to stay with her, and I guess we aren’t technically back together. I mean, she’s definitely mine, and I’m not fucking around with anyone else yet, but still. We’re technically broken up.
She doesn’t even kiss me goodbye as she slides out of the Jeep. She just waves without looking as she walks down the sidewalk, then up the exposed stairway to the second floor of her apartment complex. I keep staring after her, long after she’s shut the door behind her.
She seemed so distracted today.
And then, last night. When Eli told me what happened, right before I’d found her in the kitchen and he’d gone up to his room, apparently.Goddammit.
She doesn’t even remember.
She stripped for my best friend and she doesn’t even fucking remember.
I close my eyes, my fingers clenched on the steering wheel. And then my phone starts to ring through the speakers of my car.
I open my eyes and answer the call, holding my breath until the line connects.
For a few seconds, there’s just silence and then I ask, “Mom?”
I hate that my voice is rough, kind of broken. I hate that my entire body is tense as I stare at the steering wheel, waiting for her to say something. Wondering if her calling me was an accident.
It wouldn’t be the first time she’s pocket dialed me.
“Alex!” she says in a false-cheerful voice.
That almost hurts worse. It makes my heart sink, hearing her pretend. Hearing her as the shell of the mother she used to be.
I flex my fingers against the wheel, lean my head back and close my eyes. I want to go upstairs, to Zara’s apartment. I want to fall into her arms. I want to tell her I’m scared. I want to tell her I don’t want her to become my mother.
I want to tell her I think she already has.
“How are you, son?”
I swallow down the anger. “I’m good, Mom. Dad said that he couldn’t make it because—”
She laughs, cutting me off. There’s no humor in her laugh. No amusement whatsoever. Just cold, bitter anger. “What did Dad say?” But she doesn’t let me finish. “I’ll tell you what really happened, because I’m sure he didn’t. There were more pictures today, posted on the church website, right in the comments section under Dad’s latest blog post.” Her voice takes on a hard edge, and I can imagine her jaw locked, her narrowed eyes. I can imagine her rage. I can imagine how much she hates him. “Right under the latest post about keeping the fucking spark alive in your marriage.”
I hate it for her. I fucking hate it for her.
I slam my fist against the wheel, but don’t say anything. She’s not done ranting. But if she’s ranting, it means she’s not using. Not right now. Probably later. Probably as soon as I get off the phone with her, and I’d sit in this fucking Jeep all night long if it meant I could keep her talking. If it meant she’d fall asleep on the line with me. If it meant she wouldn’t slip into a Xanax-induced coma.
“I confronted him of course, and he lied. Of course.”
Of course.
“Mom, I’m so—”
“Don’t ever do this, Alex, do you hear me?” Her tone changes. It’s not hard anymore. Not so angry. It’s…pleading. “Don’t do this to any girl. Even if it’s Zara. Dad said Zara was at the party, with Rihanna…” She trails off. “Screw what your dad says about her. Don’t do this to her.”
Obviously, Dad didn’t tell Mom what Zara did with Jamal Clint. Probably better that way.
I glance up at the windows on the second floor of Zara’s apartment. I wish I could see inside. I wish I could always be with her. I wish I could save her.
“Mom, I wouldn’t—”
“Don’t wreck her world because some newer, younger, shinier toy comes into your life. Do you understand me, Alex Christian?”
I rub my hand over my heart. “I understand, Mom.”
