He’s the first to speak. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” I say a little too forcefully, as I swipe a hand over my buzzed head back and forth.
He shoots me a look that clearly conveys that he knowsI’m full of shit, but shrugs his shoulders and pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He wordlessly offers me one.
I stay still for half a second too long, then finally, step closer and pull one out of the pack. He lights mine first, then his. I grunt out aThankswith the filter between my lips.
We smoke in silence, the white cloud of smoke and cold breaths mingling in the air between us. The weather eventually gets the best of me, and I start to shiver.
“Need the rest of the day off?” Whit asks offhandedly as he stubs his butt into the metal ashtray on the wall.
“Absolutely fucking not,” I snap back, flicking my butt into the snowy street.
Whit chuckles, and I swallow hard.
“Alright then,” he says, “Let’s get back to it.”
Nothingabout this bottle of Jameson is going to help ease whatever happened to me today. But at least the burn of the alcohol down my throat helps to keep the thoughts at bay.
I’m sitting on the couch in the dark, drinking straight from the bottle. Memories of my deadbeat dad doing the same filter through my mind, and a bite of shame threatens to undo the numbing buzz I’m working on.
Like father, like son.
It’s a cliché for a reason. It satisfies my need to wallow in peace. At least I’ve turned on the TV just to make the image of me a little less depressing, DK curled up and sleeping against my thigh.
I thought of texting Selina, but even meaningless sex wouldn’t help quell my thoughts about Connie.
What the hell is it about her that has me in a chokehold? I feel as trapped under her spell as I did behind bars. She’sstrung me up like a puppet, pulling my strings, making me dance against my will.
I take another swig from the bottle.
On the living room table, my phone lights up with a phone call. I eye it numbly, but it’s a number I don’t recognize. I stare at the screen until it goes dark and deliberate if I should just turn my phone off for the night.
My phone vibrates with an incoming text.
Groaning loudly, I lean over and plop the bottle of whiskey on the table, picking up my phone. My stomach flips, despite my irritation.
Pick up, it’s Connie.
Not a second later, my phone starts to ring again.
“Shit,” I mutter out loud.
Being at least alittlefamiliar with Connie’s temperament, something tells me she won’t be taking no for an answer, even if I ignore her call a second time.
I unconsciously smooth my shirt down as if this isn’t just a voice call, and straighten up on the couch before answering.
“What?” I grunt.
She takes no time to jump right in.
“Are you ever going to apologize for what you said today?”
Guilt gnaws at my conscience like tiny razor-sharp teeth, but I don’t let it be heard in my voice.
“How did you get my number?” I ask, my tone flat.
“Well, it wasn’t fucking rocket science now was it?” she snips back. Sophia, probably. “You know, we’re going to have to start acting civil, whether you like it or not.”
