Four Years Later (One Week Girlfriend #4)(62)
Author: Monica Murphy

“He’s gone. I kicked him out last night. Told him I was sick of how he’s keeping you on the shit when we should be getting you off it. I was wrong about him and you were right. Des is our friend but I’m tired of dealing with his … dealing.” Wade walks farther into my bedroom, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “It f**king stinks in here.”

It does. Like beer and weed and sweat and desperation. “I need Des.”

“You don’t need anything Des can give you, trust me.” Wade strides toward my window and yanks the blinds open, letting in the early afternoon light. I hiss like a f**king vampire, my entire body recoiling as though I’m going to disintegrate into a pile of dust the moment sun makes contact with my skin.

“Why the hell did you do that, ass**le?” I sit up in bed, squinting my eyes against the brightness while rubbing the back of my neck. It aches. Everything aches. I’ve hardly left this room, let alone the house, since the night Mom ruined my life.

Correction. Since the night I ruined my life.

“Because you need to see some light instead of sleeping the day away. After you put in all that time trying to get your grades up and you actually f**king did it, you let it all go straight to hell over a girl.” Wade says the last word with disgust.

“Three girls, really,” I say, thumping the back of my head against the wall. Mom, Fable, and Chelsea.

“Whatever.” Wade waves his hand. “The fact that you’re letting a bunch of women ruin your life when you had everything going good is what’s tripping me up.”

“You wouldn’t understand.” I groan and slide back down, under the covers, pulling the comforter over my head. “I f**ked up.”

“You constantly f**k up. What else is new? You usually just keep moving on. That’s what I always liked about you. Shit would go down, you’d handle it, and then off you went. Ready to tackle something else if it came your way. You always acted like you didn’t have a care in the world. Nothing bothered you.”

“I’m real good at faking it,” I mutter. Everything bothered me. All the time. When I was younger, I’d absorb it, hold it in, and slowly let it take me over until the anger and the hurt consumed me. The pain, the guilt of having a f**ked-up home life with a crazy mother did a number on me, especially when I was younger and had no outlet.

Until I discovered drugs and girls and partying and drinking. I could lose myself in those things. Forget my troubles. Forget everything.

Fable would always pull me back on track. Drew, too. I’d try my best to do right, to be good and make the right choices.

But those right choices are hard when you’re always staring temptation right in the face.

“Yeah well, what’s that saying? Fake it until you make it? That’s what you usually do. Until now.” Wade yanks the comforter from over my head and I find him glaring at me, his expression fierce. “You need to get up and take a shower. You’ll have a visitor here in an hour.”

I frown. “Who the hell is coming to see me? Des?” I ask hopefully.

Wade shakes his head, his mouth set in a grim line. “No more Des for a while, bro. He’s bad news for someone like you. You can’t hardly function because of all the weed you’ve smoked the last seven days.”

Good shit, too. Kept my mind hazy and thick with smoke, perfectly blank. So I wouldn’t slip and think about Chelsea.

Whoops. Just slipped. “There’s gotta be a joint around here somewhere, right? Where’s my bong?”

“I hid it.”

I tumble out of bed, nearly falling to the floor before I catch myself. I’m standing on wobbly feet, clad only in my underwear, and I wrinkle my nose. My skin feels grimy, my mouth tastes like a sewer, and I bet I smell like one, too.

Wade doesn’t even flinch. He stands there, the calm in my storm, his arms crossed in front of his chest, his expression firm. I see the sadness in his eyes, though. And the worry.

He’s sad and worried about me.

“Give me my bong,” I say, because it’s all I can focus on. All I’d rather focus on, because facing my reality is just way too difficult to contemplate.

“Fuck your bong. Fuck your weed. Go take a shower.” He shoves at my shoulders, pushing me toward my open bedroom door, and I let him. Give in because it’s easier and he’s right. I’m rank, and I need to take a shower before I stink myself out.

I go into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, turning the lock. Start digging through the cabinets, hoping to score a joint like the last time I looked, but I’m out of luck. I turn on the water in the shower, letting it warm up as I brush my teeth. The bathroom is cold as ice, but the steam from the shower starts to up the temperature. I think of Chelsea taking a shower in here. When my life was normal and good and everything was going my way.

But that’s ruined. I ruined it.

Way to feel sorry for yourself.

I take a quick shower, thankful that Wade pushed me into it because I feel semi-human again. His words are on repeat in my head, reminding me that I am acting like a mopey, good-for-nothing ass**le. I need to pull my head out of my ass and get back to living. Fuck it if Mom’s mad at me. If Fable won’t speak to me. If Chelsea won’t ever look at me again. I can’t let that shit get me down.

Fake it until you make it.

After I throw on some clothes, I check my phone, ignoring the text messages from Des, and from some girl in my English class who has the hots for me and somehow got my number. There’s a voice mail from my coach, and another from my boss at The District, but I choose not to listen to them right now. They’re probably full of nothing but bad news.

I can’t handle that. Not right now.

Then I see Drew’s number. He left me a voice mail. I hit the play button and hold the phone to my ear, the sound of Drew’s familiar voice filling my head, making me sit on the edge of the mattress and nervously bounce my knee. I dread hearing what he’ll say.

What if he hates me?

“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing, but ignoring your sister isn’t doing you or me any favors. She’s mad, but more than anything, she’s worried about you, Owen. Call her. You two need to talk.”

That was it. That was all he said. He didn’t beat me up, didn’t tell me I was a rotten, no-good ass**le brother who’d ditched his sister. Just simple and to the point. Call your sister. She’s mad. She’s worried.

The end.