Page 58 of Crush
Mom, Dad, it’s me. Don’t text back. I just want you to know I love you, I’m okay, and I’m doing everything I can to see you again. I miss you so much. I love you. I hope you’re both doing all right. Dad, I really want one of your hugs. Mom, I’m even missing your burnt macaroni and cheese. I hope you’ve kept my room the same because I plan on coming back to you. You’re my parents. Never forget that. xxxx
“Hey.” Zeke’s hand comes to my middle back and rubs. “It’s okay.”
A splotch of water lands on his screen. I sniff, then wipe under my eyes, hoping to blink back the surge of loss. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re dealing with some difficult trauma. My therapist would love your story.”
I wipe the front of the phone on my blazer. As I do, it buzzes.
My heart leaps into my throat. “I told them not to—” I don’t finish the sentence. I’m too busy hungrily scanning the words, hoping for and dreading what I’ll read.
Baby girl, it’s so good to hear from you. I don’t know whose phone this is, so I’ll keep it brief. I don’t want to get you in trouble. We think of you every second, every day. You are our jewel, and we’ve lost you. Your room will forever remain the same. I go in there sometimes just to feel your presence. We can’t wait to see you again.
I know it’s hard, but I hope you’re making the most of your time there and doing well at your school. And baby, be kind to Malcolm. It’s difficult, and I can’t begin to wonder what it’s like to have your life shredded like this, but he is your father. Get to know him. Find pieces of yourself in him. You might discover some good in this situation. Because for all our faults, we don’t want his suffering to be part of our mistake. He’s a victim, too. I love you, baby girl, with all my heart and soul. We’ll wait patiently for your return. xoxo
I have to massage my throat because it’s so full of ache. After I read it a second time, I delete it entirely.
“Who was that?” Zeke asks beside me, continuing to rub my back.
“My dad,” I manage to reply, then hand the phone back to him. “Thank you. I can’t express enough how much it meant to be able to do that.”
“Anything for you, darling.” Zeke slips the phone back into his pocket. “Is the coast clear? Can we go?”
“Uh…” Blinking back unshed tears, I look at the clock again. Take a breath. “Yeah. I think so.”
Zeke leans into my line of sight. “Are you okay to do this?”
“Of course.” I press my palms into my cheeks, centering myself and prying my mind off Dad’s text.
“It’s okay if you’re not. Blimey, I’m impressed by your commitment to bagging Thorne, considering your whole life was turned into a lie. If you need a minute or want to cancel, I’m fairly certain I can fuck him over on my own.”
I shake my head. “I got this. It helps, actually, to have someone to funnel all my hate into when the rest of my situation feels so out of control.”
Zeke pokes out his lower lip in thought. “Fair enough. What are we waiting for, then?” He winks and offers his arm. “Let’s go make Prickly Boy’s night.”
25
Thorne
Someone threw up in the Monstera.
I stare down at the pot, where chunks of regurgitated pizza coat the roots of a $5,000 plant, and shrug.
Music blasts through hidden speakers, echoing off the old brick walls and ancient flooring of the Briar mansion, bodies writhing or screaming at each other over the beats in every direction I scan. Every year, I throw a Halloween party for the ages. It puts any black tie event or ball at this mansion to shame, what with the vomit, spilled drinks, random pairs of thongs strung over the banister, and brightly colored or fake blood coated outfits decorating every available space.
Father would be so proud.
I weave through the packed foyer, ignoring calls to join a group and Solo cups shoved at my chest, aiming for the one seat that’s never soiled or taken up by a stranger’s ass. The teak Buddha chair stands out from the nineteenth-century ballroom design, a giant wooden hand ready to receive my ass. It’s dragged from the greenhouse and into the ballroom every year, and everyone at the party knows that to sit in it means their eternal suffering for the duration of their time at Winthorpe.
It rests on a dais a few feet higher than the floor—the better for me to lock eyes with every single fucker at this party and ensure compliant behavior. I ease into it, splaying my legs with my elbows on my thighs, and watch.
I suppose I’m meant to find some fucking peace while sitting in it, but Jesus, I’m restless.
The Winthorpe crowd doesn’t draw my interest like it used to, and neither does the fresh meat in the form of sophomores who’ve blossomed into slutty cats and witches.
On cue, a junior dressed as a wildcat wanders up to my seat while twirling her tail. “Hey, Thorne. You look like you could use a little distraction.”
My eyes travel up her slim frame, pausing on her leopard-print booty shorts, then bra. She notices and offers a coy smile, chewing on the tip of her tail. “Wanna see what’s underneath my cheetah fur?”