Page 261 of Caveman (Wild Men 1)

“Why?” I lurch to my feet and throw the bottle at the wall. It lands with a satisfying crash. But it’s not enough. Not nearly. “Why her?”

I kick the chairs, grab the ashtrays and hurl them at the walls. Hurl them at my framed drawings, smashing the glass, tearing the paper to shreds. The frames drop to the floor, breaking to pieces.

Still not enough. Not enough destruction.

Lurching back to the table, I grab the other bottle from the bag and unscrew the cap. I drink, swallowing so fast I barely stop to breathe. It doesn’t burn quite as much going down as before. Maybe if I drink enough, it’ll black out my memory, strikethrough my thoughts. Erase everything. Change everything.

Except everything has already changed.

I clench my fingers around the bottle. No. I won’t let anything happen to her. I won’t. Except…

Nothing good ever lasts. You should know this by now.

“No!” I shout at the empty apartment. “I’m not giving up on her! I’m not fucking giving up. I love her.”

I grab the lamp and throw it against the window, lifting my arm over my face as glass rains down. As if it matters.

I love her.

“I won’t lose you, too,” I say into the deafening silence. “I can’t.”

But there’s no answer. There never is. No answer. No miracles. I’m raving and ranting alone, and fate doesn’t give a damn.

So I drink until my stomach turns itself inside out again, and I puke my guts on the floor. And then I drink more. Not sure it’ll be enough.

Or maybe it will. My vision is going blurry, and no matter how much I blink it doesn’t clear. I dimly realize I’ve dropped to my knees. After a while, everything goes black and quiet, and it’s like flying. But I can’t fly, so I guess I must be falling, and it almost feels the same.

Chapter Fourteen

Dakota

We’re standing outside Aunt Carolina’s room. God, I hate hospitals, hate all the pain they contain. But this is my aunt, my mom’s sister, and as I hold Mom in my arms, I’m glad I came, glad my poor little car didn’t give up the ghost on the way yesterday.

Only thing that’s bothering me a little is that I haven’t talked to Zane yet. I called him from Mom’s phone several times—my cell has been declared officially dead—but he won’t pick up. Then again, Tessa, who gave me Dad’s message about Aunt Carolina, said Ash and the guys were going to the movies, so maybe they took him along.

God knows he could use a break. His sister’s sickness is taking a toll on him. He barely eats, barely smiles. It’s worrying me.

At least I hope he sees the note I wrote and stuck on the fridge. When I called Dad yesterday morning, he told me he called Zane and left a message, so

hopefully Zane knows where I am, one way or another.

God, I wish he were here with me. I’m so sad about Aunt Carolina. She’s worse off than Dad told me last night. The cancer has spread everywhere. She’s dying as we speak.

“Darling girl,” she told me this morning, holding my hand. “I lived a full life. Did what I wanted. And I want my art exhibition to happen, no matter what. Will you see to it?”

And I said yes, because I’d do anything for her and because she makes me so proud. She did live a full life. Followed her heart, married for love, and when her husband died, she traveled around the world, studied and lived happy.

I want to be like her. Follow my heart. Trust my feelings.

Be with Zane. If he wants to be with me, too.

Dad comes out of the doctor’s room, his face drawn in tense lines. He pulls Mom into his arms and pats her back. “We’ll get through this, honey.”

I rub my hands up and down my arms. “What did they say?”

“The same. There’s nothing they can do. They’ll make sure she’s not in pain. We’ll bring her all she needs—her drawing supplies, her MP3 player. We’ll keep her company as much as possible.”

I nod. “I think I’ll stay a couple days here. Let me call someone.”

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