Page 9 of Together We Rot

Since I’ve become so enamored with the glittering glass, I almost forgot where I was. With a bit of effort, I manage to lift my head and look out.

The details drift in and out of clarity. One second they’re there; the next they’re gone. “You think she’s actually going to give me the time of day?”

Kevin shrugs. “She’s here, isn’t she?”

“God, I’m already sweating. I didn’t plan this out. I don’t know what to say to her.”

Laughter bubbles from my chest for no reason, light and airy and soft. I want to tell him to open his heart, to offer her all the tender truths he’s kept buried and make amends. But it’s too much work to make my lips cooperate. So instead, I focus on finding Veronica in the crowd.

She’s certainly pretty—long lashes, clear eyes, rosy cheeks—but... I don’t know. My heart is calm. I don’t look at her and see days stretched out on the grass; I can’t imagine counting the freckles on her skin or picking branches out from her messy, tousled hair.

There’s only ever been one girl like that for me.

And the very thought of her now washes over my bones like an arctic tide. There’s no warmth left. Your family knows what happened to my mom. I know they do. Her teeth scraped over the accusation, her eyes were fire-bright and raging. I’d come that day to console her, but the grief wasn’t there. Just rage. You need to choose right now. Our friendship hung on a single question: Who do you believe, your family or me?

“You should talk to her.” At least that’s what I try to say. The words are sticky in my mouth. Lucas has gone a peculiar shade of pink. It stretches from his ears to his nose to his chin. “I’m not sure if I can. God, I’m such a loser. I fucked things up in the diner.”

“Just tell her everything you’ve told us.” I drag him by the sleeve. “That you love her.”

I’m a wingman. If I concentrate really hard, I can even feel the wings ripping out from my back. I’ll fly him over to her. They’ll talk and he’ll apologize and everything will be okay. Maybe I won’t feel so guilty for leaving tonight and never coming back.

“Every time I try to say something to her, it all goes wrong, man. Things go one way in my head and then I see her and I forget how to speak and suddenly I blink and the whole thing’s over and I’m the asshole again.”

I want to argue, but I don’t know what to say. Spinning back, I look for her again, but the crowd’s already begun to disperse. Now that I’m no longer drinking, there’s nothing to watch. Perhaps I should grab the drink from Lucas’s hand again, if only to bring her back over here.

My eyes catch on a familiar face.

There’s nothing soft about this girl. Eyes blacker than dripping ink, her mouth twisted in a permanent sneer. She’s the type of pretty that could get you killed; if you stare too long, you’ll turn to stone. She has dark roots, hair swinging in jagged strands to her shoulders. All thorn, no flower.

I stare at her and her thirty-two freckles. Wilhelmina Greene.

The sight of her throws the world apart. I see her and the butterflies in my chest drop dead.

The surge of happiness I’m feeling—a grin I couldn’t shake, laughter that gushed out of me—ends abruptly.

She stalks my way. Closer and closer until she’s got a fistful of my shirt.

It’s been one awful, tense year. A whole year trapped in her vicious storm cloud, caught in a hatred so deep and deadly, it’s left me permanently winded. She asked me to choose and I did, and I’ve been living in the aftermath of my decision ever since.

All the pointed looks she gave me when she thought I wasn’t looking, the way her smile would shrivel and die when her eyes met mine.

And now her fingers are locked tight.

“W-Wil.” The name goes down hard. I have to swallow twice to force it through my throat. I hyperfixate on every little movement—the slosh of my voice rising like bile in my throat, my knees cracking as I shift in place, the sluggish weight of my body.

And she’s pulling me, dragging me forward like I weigh nothing. I feel featherlight.

There are catcalls and jeers from all sides. People are looking, but I can’t bring myself to look back. The lights morph: The vivid hues from before have vanished. Now it’s a steady flash of deep red. The same harsh hue of a trickling cut or a festering, angry wound.

My chest hurts. Really, really bad. Each breath is a rattling hiss in my lungs. Wil is touching me. I can feel her warmth spreading through my shirt. Wil is touching me.

I recognize the back door as it slams behind us. And then there’s silence. Me and Wil. Alone. Lucas’s backyard stretches in a sheet of never-ending white. She’s close. My back is to the wall and her lips are not far from mine. She looks pissed and maybe I should be scared, but she smells like strawberries. I tell her as much.

“That’s all you’ve got to say to me?” she says, breaking the silence with burning eyes and gnashing teeth. “Not ‘sorry my family is stealing your home, Wil’? ‘Sorry I’m not helping you solve your mother’s case, Wil’?... Seriously, though, strawberries?” Her anger dips to brief confusion, and she takes a sniff of her own hair. “I smell like BO.”

I think I say something, but I’m not sure. All I know is that as soon as she lets go of me, I’m going to fall. My legs are barely keeping me upright.

“Your father’s done playing preacher, huh? He wants to become God now? What does your family even want with the motel? Let me guess, you’re going to demolish it? Make it into a megachurch?”

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