Page 80 of Wild and Bright

The smile fades, and his usually warm eyes grow cold. “When did you become such a cunt?”

Rage flares so suddenly that I have to keep myself from reaching out and slapping his face. “Call me a cunt one more time, Hunter. Do it! I dare you.” I grit my teeth, shoving my face forward until it’s inches from his. Hunter is so startled he jerks his head back. “I’m only here because you’re an absolute shitshow when you binge. You’ll probably pass out in the snow when they kick your wasted ass out at closing time, and I’m not going to risk that. But if you keep calling me names and whining like a self-pitying little bitch, I will beat your ass down to the ground, and I’ll enjoy it!” My face is so strained, it feels like my forehead might burst open.

But the angry high fades quickly, and I wish I could suck the words back in. Why do I lash out like this?

Thankfully, his eyes no longer look hurt like they did a moment ago. He almost looks dazed. “Shit,” he mumbles. “You’re really pissed off.”

I exhale, plopping down on the stool next to him. “Yes.” My throat so tight I can barely get the word out. “I love you, but I hate you when you’re like this.” Now my voice is completely choked, and belatedly I realize that tears are rolling down my cheeks. “Shit,” I whisper, lifting my hands and wiping under my eyes with the pads of my fingers.

“Aww, honey.”

When his arms wrap around my waist and his chin rest on my shoulder, I relax into him. But then my dirty martini is set in front of me, and I stiffen, my stomach sinking with shame. Here I am drinking pure vodka at a slimy dive bar in Omaha with a recovering alcoholic.

What a disaster.

“Uh-oh,” Hunter says. “Looks like we have company.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Camden

Why is she at a bar?

Even more alarming, why didn’t she tell me she went to a bar? Why did she say she stepped out for a bit? The questions repeat over and over again in my mind as I drive down the dark country road.

Checking her location has become a habit. It’s a comfort to know where she is. And most of the time, she’s exactly where I’d expect her to be. In my house. At her parents’. Or in our hotel.

But not this time.

And what peculiar timing when we just had one of the most important discussions of our relationship. If our situations were reversed, if she told me she needed time to think about our future, I’d be at this moment pacing the hotel room floor waiting for her to get back.

What does it mean? Did she get cold feet?

Logic tells me I’m jumping to conclusions. I’m always assuming the worst. I’ve done this with Hunter, too. Any time something seems even slightly off with him, I imagine only the bleakest scenarios. Finding him facedown on a hotel-room floor or getting a sobbing phone call from my mom or opening the door and seeing a morose-looking police officer on the other side of it. Ninety-nine percent of the time the truth is far less grim.

I needed to get away to think. Maybe she did, too. But that doesn’t sound like Lauren. By her own admission, she doesn’t like to reflect. She doesn’t think anything good comes out of it.

Waiting is hell, an unbearable anxiety that makes my skin hot and my stomach sick. I know it well after so many agonizing hours after Hunter disappeared, dreading the state he’d be in when I finally found him. Out of survival, I’ve learned how to disconnect from my fear. To exist in a meditative state of mindfulness.

Mostly.

With effort, I take a deep breath. The flat, endless road ahead. The smooth steering wheel, now damp from my clammy hands. The prickling heat at the back of my neck. The coldness at the pit of my stomach. Before I know it, I’m standing in front of a bar. The queasiness in my stomach makes it hard to breathe. Somehow, I know in my gut that when I enter this place, everything will change between us.

My gaze finds her the moment I walk through the door, and the sight of her has the usual calming effect, but it’s short-lived. When I process the full sight in front of me, my body grows so stiff I can barely move. Hunter steps behind her and wraps his arms around her shoulders. Her green eyes are bright and glistening, and she sits with…

A martini in front of her.

I shut my eyes tightly, forcing myself to breathe deeply.

She’s here with Hunter.

He’s relapsing. And she’s with him.

Not only that. She covered for him.

She lied to me.

When I finally feel like I have a handle on myself, I open my eyes and run my gaze over Hunter. I can tell in an instant that he’s drunk. His eyes are hooded, and even his smallest movements are sluggish. He’s only been sober eighty-three days, and he’s drinking again. And she’s his accomplice.

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