Fractured Things - Samantha Lovelock Page 0,65
a soggy mess. The emptiness I feel is so wide and cavernous it has its own echo and its own zip code.
Forgiveness is a bitter pill to swallow sometimes. Can I forgive the man who started this wheel turning? The one who ripped away everything my mother should have become? No, there is no forgiveness for the evil thing that hides inside that bag of skin and bones. Can I forgive the boy who made me trust against my will and then broke it all apart? His sins are those of fear and protection, not wanting to see me hurt and not knowing how to say the words without stabbing a hole through my heart. His sins are without malice. Maybe that deserves forgiveness.
It’s the strangest thing to need another person. Once fully able and willing to be yourself without anybody else's help, and now somehow less without them. The sound of their voice can alter your mood instantly. A shared grin from across a room full of faceless, pale mouths constantly speaking but never saying anything, and suddenly the room floods with color.
Is he waiting for me? Does he even care? Or has he taken his life back to when it was easy, and a fuck was just a ride that was always over in the light of day?
How do I tell him I need him?
How do I tell him I made a mistake?
Chapter Twenty-One
I don’t know why I agreed to come tonight. This party was Sunday’s idea, not mine. I haven’t gotten out of the car yet, and I’m already beginning to regret letting myself get talked into it. At least I drove, so escaping early shouldn’t be too difficult.
My aunt and my best friend have both been spending a lot of time worrying about me—I can see it in their eyes. After the big paternity reveal on Thursday and my decision to forgive Poe, I’ve been sort of lost in my head trying to figure out what to do. Friday was a total loss—Poe didn’t even show up for school. When Sunday begged me this morning, in front of my aunt no less, to come to the party at Payne’s tonight, my initial response was to brush her off.
“Uh, Sun, I don’t do so well at Folkestone parties. Remember the last one?” She shushed me and assured me this one would be totally different. Fun and safe and something I desperately needed. Looking to Cecily for help, she shrugged and agreed with Sunday.
So here I am.
Sunday turns the rearview mirror away from me, toward where she sits in the passenger seat.
“Payne’s dad has some big security symposium in London, and he took Mrs. Emerson with him so they can visit her family at the same time,” she explains, smoothing her hair and pulling her lip gloss from her pocket.
“His mom’s British?” I ask, having never actually spoken to the woman myself. She was at the Halliday’s house back in September, but I don’t think I had the chance to do anything more than nod and smile when I was introduced to her.
“Yep. I keep forgetting you haven’t been around that long. It feels like we’ve known each other since forever,” Sunday says. “His parents met in England when they were teenagers. Payne’s grandfather did some work for the British government or something, and Mrs. Emerson’s father was one of the people he was working with. She ended up coming here to the States for college, and they hooked back up. The rest, as they say, is history.” She finishes touching up her lips and turns the mirror back to face me.
“Are you ready?”
“Can I say no?” I ask hopefully.
“No, you can’t say no. In fact, you’re only allowed to say yes for the rest of the night. ‘Yes, I would love a drink.’ ‘Yes, I’m single.’ ‘Yes, I know these pants make my ass look fabulous.’ You know, the usual.” She manages to say all of this with a straight face, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my mine.
“Alright, alright. Let’s go inside before I change my mind.” We vacate my car and head into the house. Once inside, my senses are overloaded with wall to wall bodies, ear-splitting music, and a vague hint of pot smoke.
“Holy shit,” Sunday shouts at me over the noise, “Payne’s outdone himself this time. I can’t believe how many people are here!” She hooks her arm through mine and acts as my tugboat and tour guide—pulling me through