The Worst Kind of Promise: Chapter 17

“You’re grounded,” Hayes says.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“You can’t ground me in a house I don’t even live in, dickhole!”

Did I expect to be arguing with my brother while I’m high as balls? No. In fact, I was under the apparently unlikely belief that all of this would be forgotten by tomorrow. But my stupid brother had to barge into the bathroom and catch me sitting in the bathtub, fully clothed, stroking the side of it like I was Gollum protecting the Ring.

He put the pieces together pretty quickly.

I blame Kit. I know I took the drugs, but I still blame him. He never came back, even though he promised he would. Then again, he’s said a lot of bullshit that wasn’t true these past few days. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’d punch him right now if I had coordination over my arm.

“It’s not her fault,” Kit interjects, trying to play hero.

Well, it’s too late for that, buddy.

“Yeah, it’s not my fault,” I slur, swaying a bit before I thump my shoulder against the wall, breathing out a sigh of relief that something was there to catch me. My head’s foggy, and my tongue feels chalky. I know I should be more than mad, but the damn Molly is dulling the anger rioting inside of me, replacing it with tooth-achingly sweet happiness. How is anybody supposed to take me seriously when I’m as intimidating as a cupcake?

“Stop trying to absolve her,” Hayes snaps, waggling his finger in front of my face.

It looks like there are little trails of light projecting off his digit, a blur of red and blues, like astigmatism through a windshield on a rainy drive.

“I’m not. I’m just saying that maybe you need to ease up a little.”

“Oh, so now you’re giving me ‘parenting’ advice? You have no idea what Faye needs right now.”

“She doesn’t need you fucking berating her,” Kit snarls, hostility tarnishing his voice. Or maybe it’s protectiveness.

Each word is punctuated, and my heart bloats, a familiar warmth flowering in between my thighs. My mind’s seemed to forget that we’re both half-naked, but my body’s more than ready to make up for lost time. I also seem to have forgotten that I’m mad at him. But I am mad at him for…for…something. It was something he said.

Hayes ignores Kit. “Do you realize how irresponsible you’ve been? Taking drugs a stranger gives you without telling anyone?” Anger overwhelms my brother’s features, but so does fear. Fear that I’ve never seen before. It lives in his watercolor eyes, extending all the way down to his very soul.

“You take drugs all the time!” I contradict, fists clenched at my sides, my nostrils stinging from the ammonia-like scent of the bathroom.

“That’s different, Faye! And for your information, I only took them a few times in college. Always surrounded by people I trusted.”

“How is that any different? Stop treating me like…” Like I’m a baby? Like I’m fragile? Like I’m broken?

The words suffer a swift death on my tongue, and for the sake of my sanity and the tears lining my eyes, I don’t finish my sentence. Instead, I sit through a long lecture and a hot-worded reproach, getting the occasional reprieve when Kit butts in to add an unnecessary comment.

If I had a diary—which I should probably invest in after the trauma I’ve endured this year—here’s what I’d write for today’s entry:

FUCK YOU, KIT LANGLEY. I HOPE YOUR DICK FALLS OFF IN A FREAK ACCIDENT.