Prologue
***Tyler***
Three years ago…
I feel as though an anvil sits on my head, a big, fat, fucking chunk of metal that’s crushing my skull into my pillow. I try to open my eyes so I can shove the damn thing off, but that awakens the hammer in my temple, and it thrashes back and forth, using the inside of my skull as a percussion instrument.
As I sit up, my stomach pitches to the left, to the right, and back to the left. I grab the trash can next to my bed, yank it into my lap, and heave like a motherfucker. The bottle of liquor I downed last night burns as much coming up as it did going down. I’m not sure the reprieve alcohol gave me from the shittiest week of my life is worth this hellish morning.
Yeah, that’s bullshit. It’s totally worth it. I’ll do it again tonight.
When my stomach settles, I put the bin on the floor and wipe my mouth with the edge of my sheet. After a few shaky breaths, I fall back onto the mattress. My shoulder smashes into something hard—probably the empty bottle of Everclear I took to bed last night.
I’m too beat up to move, so I lie on the cold glass and stare at the ceiling, trying real fucking hard not to think about how messed up I am. I don’t mean hungover messed up. Being a fucked-up drunk is the least of my problems. Nope, I’m a certifiable nutcase, the kind who should be locked in a psych ward to live the rest of my miserable existence with the other crazies.
I’m in the middle of wondering what being admitted to a crazy farm would be like when my phone rings. The sound rattles my brain, and I moan as I slap around my nightstand. When I finally find the cell, I make the mistake of checking the screen before silencing it.
Emma.
My heart stutters. I shouldn’t answer. Hell, I just broke up with her two days ago, but I push the little green button anyway. I like punishing myself, and hearing her sweet voice is the worst atonement of all.
“Yeah?” My mouth is so dry, I croak like a damn frog.
Hesitation and then, “Are you okay?” She sounds timid, unsure of herself.
“Just peachy. You?” She’s silent, and I sit up despite the gong sounding in my ears. “Emma?”
She sniffles. “I’m sorry, Tyler. Really, really sorry.”
What the hell does she have to be sorry about? I’m the one who went Jekyll and Hyde on her ass. “Don’t ever say that. Call me a dipshit, an asshat, a dick, but don’t ever say you’re sorry.”
She’s not allowed to throw an undeserved apology in my face. What am I supposed to do with that? I’m the douchebag who should be apologizing.
A shuddering sob vibrates down the line. I want to reach through the phone and drag her to me so I can comfort her, but even if I could, I’ve lost the right to touch her and damn doesn’t that suck.
I hear her swallow hard, and she takes a breath so deep that when she exhales, a phantom rush of air brushes my cheek. “My parents… they’re making me get a restraining order.”
Well, fuck. Isn’t that the cherry on top of my shit-for-ice-cream sundae?
“I’m sorry. So, so sorr—”
“Stop.”
“I don’t want to do it, but if I don’t, they’ll make me drop out of school and come home. It’s not fair.” She sobs again, and it breaks my fucking heart. “You’d never hurt me.”
“You sure about that?”
I’d thought the same thing until we had a car accident. She hit her head on the rearview mirror, and a gash the size of a half-dollar coin spit blood down her face. I’d been sure she was going to die, and even after the nurse promised she was fine, I was a walking stick of dynamite seeking a flame.
When Emma told me she hadn’t been wearing her seat belt, well, that was the matchstick that ignited my fuse. It was my job to protect her. How had I not noticed the missing belt that should have been cinched around her waist?
I was angry at myself, angry at her, angry at the guy who’d rammed my truck. The emergency room became my punching bag. I knocked the cardiac machine to the floor, ripped the curtain from the track, put a hole in the wall with my fist, all while her parents watched. Isn’t that what every dad wants to see? Their little girl’s boyfriend going Hulk?
“They don’t know about your past,” she says.
“My past is irrelevant. What I did in that ER was inexcusable. My anger could have hurt you. If a restraining order is my only penance, then that’s a damn good outcome for me.”
Except we both know that’s not true. My true penance is losing her. I can’t stay with a girl whose death is always foremost on my mind. I’d slowly drive her off a cliff, and as soon she jumped, I’d follow.
Any way we look at it, our relationship would end in disaster. By breaking up with her two days ago, I’m minimizing the number of epic fails to one that involves broken ER equipment and gaping parents.
“Look, Emma, I hate this. I hate it more than anything, but I’m not going to change. Your parents think I’m dangerous. They’re right. I am. So sign the restraining order and move on.”
“You don’t deserve this.”
That’s where she’s wrong. Ever since my senior year of high school, there are two things I’ve been absolutely sure of. Every woman I love is going to die. It will always be my fault.
“Hell no, I don’t deserve this. Neither do you, but it is what it is.”
In a tiny voice, she says, “I want to be with you.”
I want to be with her too. Over the last three months, I’ve fallen hard, and that’s the shittiest part of all. We should be together, but we can’t. Relationships are off the table until I can get my head screwed on straight.
“I’ll sign the restraining order,” she says, her voice solid as though she’s made up her mind. “I’ll turn it into the police to make my parents happy, and then I’ll go back the next day and tell them I’ve changed my mind. They can’t file anything without my consent.”
“I don’t think it works that way.”
“I’ll figure something out.”
Emma’s a determined little thing when she wants something badly enough. It’s one of the many reasons I fell for her.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I gather the courage to break her heart one last time. “It’s over. I don’t want to be with you anymore. I don’t want you to call me. I don’t want anything to do with you. Hang up. Forget about me. And for Christ’s sake, move on.”
She’s quiet except for her tiny breaths. I wait, hoping she doesn’t fight me. If I have to, I’ll turn into a meaner motherfucker to prove we’re really over.
“Hang up,” I whisper, begging her not to push me.
Her sob is cut short by the click of the phone. She’s gone.
I scrub my face and fall back on the bed, wishing I had another bottle of Everclear to wipe away the last three days. My whole life has been leading up to this moment. For the first time, I see my future clearly, and I want no part of it.
