Page 11 of Together We Rot

“This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t—This isn’t—”

The words clog my throat and block out the air. I gasp, but I can’t breathe. I need to get out of here. But I don’t get far.

Stars burst from the lights until they’re all I see. They take the world with them, shattering my vision into a deep, dusky black.

CHAPTER FIVE

WIL

“So, how did that go?” Ronnie asks. I lean into her, not quite trusting my legs to keep me upright. Elwood’s driven a stake through my heart and I’m doing my best not to bleed out on the floor.

Of course he wouldn’t say anything. He doesn’t give a shit about you. He made that clear a year ago.

Months have passed and the past is still festering and raw.

I give Ronnie’s hand a squeeze. The night has taken a toll on her makeup; her eye shadow is starting to crease in the folds, lipstick transferred from her mouth to her cup. Even when she’s messy, she’s beautiful. Her presence helps, but it’s not enough. Nothing is enough.

“I wish you’d talk to me, Wil,” she begs. “Really tell me the truth about things again.” One day she’ll leave me too. Everyone does.

I try to say something, but when I open my mouth, everything comes rushing to the surface.

My nails sink into my arm, deeper, deeper, distracting myself with pain. Pain is better when I’m the one in control.

“Whoa, Wil?” The sound of her voice forces me to look up. She’s standing there, concern etched deeply in her face.

Tears trickle down, seeping into my mouth until all I taste is salt.

“Can we leave? I don’t want everyone to see me like this,” I croak into her ear. My fingers clutch greedy fistfuls of her—her hair, the back of her dress, anything I can do to get closer.

Her thumb swipes my cheek. “This party is boring anyway. Tell you what, let’s head back before the roads go to hell.”

Hell isn’t some burning, fiery pit beneath the earth. Hell is stepping out into the cold and having Mother Nature sucker punch the air out of your lungs. Hell is a scraping wind so intense that you check for blood on your cheek.

Thank God Ronnie dried the tears from my face. I have a horrible feeling they would freeze onto my skin otherwise. On particularly nasty days, I’ve gone outside with damp hair only to end up with hardened clumps of ice.

The car rumbles to life. Windshield wipers scratch against the frozen glass and ice-cold air blows out from the vents, doing very little to fight the chill slithering across my bones.

Embarrassment has already begun to creep in where the grief was. It’s one thing to cry alone—teeth clamped on a pillow, smothering sobs behind paper-thin walls. It’s another thing to cry openly, to let the whole world see how vulnerable you’ve become.

“Here, let’s see how worked up they’re getting over this storm.”

Ronnie presses a gloved finger against one of the radio buttons. All the stations are hours away from us, our own town too small for much of anything. “Huge storm front moving through tonight, folks. I’ve got to tell ya, it’s rough on the map. There’s a squall advisory from one to five a.m.” Our local weatherman’s got the heaviest Yooper accent you’ve ever heard in your life. “Real monster of a storm. We’re getting our first taste of it tonight. Hopefully, all of you listeners are staying safe—”

Meanwhile, Ronnie’s death-gripping the wheel and we’re barely creeping along. There’s bound to be some kid in a ditch soon. Scratch that: there’s bound to be several. By tonight, the winds will be wild, and you won’t be able to see anything in front of you. Just blinding white everywhere. And tonight is mild compared with what’s to come.

We weave our way out of the world’s smallest neighborhood and past Earl’s—which Ronnie may or may not have a job at anymore because of me.

All the buildings in this town are scattered among the trees like stray billboards on a rural road. Ronnie’s car crawls past the only bar we have. Despite the weather, there’s still cars parked in the lot. Mill workers treat drinking at Tail’s Tavern like a second job. Thanks to them, the Ramirez family must be rolling in cash; they’ve certainly got enough to plaster pennies all over the place.

I resist the urge to tell Ronnie to swing over there. They hardly card as it is, and I’d love to scrape some of the coins off their resin floor. Dad’s so behind on his bills that I’ll take whatever I can get.

“So,” Ronnie starts. If the roads weren’t trash, she’d probably be drumming her fingers against the wheel like she usually does. Outside, the snow has picked up even harder. It’s going to suck to shovel later. With the motel being sold, I’m almost tempted to give up on it completely and let the snow bury us alive.

No.

I’ll figure something out. The motel isn’t going anywhere.

“So,” I parrot, but I stare at the road in favor of making eye contact. Silence.

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