Page 26 of Together We Rot

With my sinful path cemented, I fall back completely.

The bed groans beneath my weight. I wish the mattress would swallow me whole and take me away. I haven’t lifted the corner to check for bedbugs, but I’m too worn out to get back up. Maybe I’ll help spruce up tomorrow. Maybe I’ll give this place a top-to-bottom cleaning for my own sanity. Or maybe the terror will catch up to me fully and I won’t be able to do anything at all.

“It’s settled, then.” Wil’s eyes are locked on her patch of the ceiling. It’s like we’re looking up at the stars, tracing constellations with our fingers. An entire peel-and-stick universe hangs above us, glowing a faint luminescent green.

“You still love space, huh?” I mutter to distract myself.

“I’m not as obsessed about it as you and your bugs, but... there’s something appealing about getting as far away from this place as you can get,” Wil mumbles, tracing out the Big Dipper with her finger. “If it wasn’t for Mom, I’d be out of this stupid town. Buy a bus ticket and go wherever it takes me and never come back.” She sniffs, looks away. “Mom did this for me. It would have been so easy to paste all the stars and be done with it, but she made them into constellations just for me.”

“Your mom loved you a lot.” The words slip out on their own. I blink at the popcorn ceiling, keeping the tears from trickling down my face. I wonder how much asbestos this place has. I wonder if the walls around me have lead paint. “I shouldn’t have said that back at Lucas’s place.”

She’s quiet—just the steady up-and-down of her chest, the beating of her heart.

“Please don’t speak about her in the past tense.”

I open my mouth to say sorry, but she shuts me up with a look. “You don’t need to comment on it, Elwood. I’ve already got my collection of sorrys.” Her expression is rigid. “If you told someone what happened to you, would ‘sorry’ help?”

Sorry your collection is smashed. Sorry your family doesn’t love you.

Sorry for what’s to come when they catch you. “You’re right, I’m sor—I’ll shut up.”

“I lost everyone in the same week. My mom, my dad in every sense that counts, and you.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” There’s a desperate edge to my voice that surprises me. “You accused my family.”

“And now look at you. Here.” She bites the word out, and her voice is harsher than I’ve ever heard it. Or maybe it’s the truth that’s harsh. “Do you think I would have burned that bridge if I didn’t have to?” Her voice is the one breaking now.

“You made me choose.”

“And you chose,” she trails off, swatting tears off her face. “God, I hate you.” The wind rushes harder outside, banging against the glass.

There’s so much venom packed in those four words that even she recoils. Each word hits like a bullet, planted deep in my chest. There’s nothing to say after that—even if I wanted to, the pain is too much. I’ve deluded myself this entire time. Deep down, I always knew she hated me, but if I kept my distance, I could pretend she didn’t. I could fool myself into believing things would be good again one day.

My eyelids grow heavy, worn down from holding back tears. The blanket feels like a coffin door, trapping me underneath its weight. Luckily, when I sleep, I see nothing.

I am thankful for the darkness.

CHAPTER NINE

WIL

I don’t wake up to the sun shining and the birds chirping. I wake up to Elwood Clarke losing his shit.

He launches himself upright, his chest heaving with every turbulent, noisy breath. The shirt I gave him clings tight with sweat. Some of it trickles down the side of his face, sticking to him like morning dew on the lawn. His bedhead gives mine a run for its money.

“All of that was real,” he pants.

“Good morning to you too,” I grumble, throwing a less-than-enthusiastic look in his direction.

Even mid-freak-out he manages to look decent. His eyelashes are ridiculously long and I don’t see evidence that he’s had a pimple ever. Maybe his parents have him on Accutane as a preventative. I follow the slope of his nose and the curve of his jaw.

When I first met him, his ears were far too big for his face and his arms were comically long in comparison to his body. He was a puppy growing into his paws. The last year has changed us both. He’s gotten better-looking, and I’ve steadily gotten uglier. My hair is... well, my hair. I wouldn’t say I’ve broken out recently, since it would imply I’ve ever had clear skin. Stress has made a home in my brain and in my oil glands.

The black bags are a bonus. I’m a mess.

A shiver sweeps over me, and I turn my rage over to the heavy draft spilling in from the window. Every winter I try to fix it with a good roll of duct tape. I’m not a handyman and I don’t know the first thing about draft repairs, but I do know duct tape. Unfortunately, my polka-dot duct tape is doing nothing today. I’ve got a smatter of probably permanent goose bumps along my bare arms.

I swing my legs over the bed and use my feet to fling back a crumpled hoodie from the floor. It passes the five-second stain-and-BO test, so I bite the bullet and throw it on. It’s got Planet Hollywood—Orlando scrawled across the front.

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