“Mindy, talk to me. Please.”
“We talked.” I open the front door and close it behind me with a hard thud. Of course she thinks this is about Heath. I don’t even really know what this is—I’m just dealing in the only way I know how. I take off from the front stoop and run toward town. The sun has already set, and it’s later than I would normally be running, but I placated my mother this morning by promising to spend the day with her. I can only handle so much pampering and sly begging before I give in. Maybe it’s not a total loss. The evening air is cooler than it is earlier in the day when the sun is out. The chill feels wonderful on my skin. It seems I can never get cool enough these days, regardless of the temperature around me.
The downside with running through town is that there’s a lot more traffic, so a lot more stop and go. I can’t just take off and run at full hilt through town like I can on the outskirts along the country roads. The days it hurts less, I run in town, and even though I’m feeling it something awful today, I can’t bring myself to run along the woods at this time of night. I might enjoy the self-inflicted pain, but that doesn’t mean I’m a total masochist.
So instead, I opt for the lesser evil and manage my run through town all the while ignoring the occasional wave and verbal greeting. I used to just be a local, and now I’m something else—something I never wanted to be. I’m somebody people want to protect and to care for, and it makes me so fucking angry that my skin crawls with their pity.
I’m a few miles into my run when Mr. Hill, of the hardware store, gives me a sad smile and a kind wave. He is—or was—a lonely old widower who never quite got over his wife’s death—that is until he started spending time with Lisa Grady. According to Holly, Old Man Hill is caught up in a torrid affair with Forsaken’s sergeant-at-arm’s mother, and the old goat couldn’t be happier. I try to summon up some happiness for him, but I don’t even have any for myself, let alone some to share. The forced wave and smile is enough to make my sandwich want to come up.
I hate feeling this way—bitter and angry—but I can’t help it. The hate of that day has seeped into my soul, and I can’t seem to get it out. The insidious hatred spreads through my veins, bringing on a craving that I don’t want. I try to block it out, but before I realize what I’m doing, my feet have taken me in the direction of the house I used to buy from. It’s a run-down old thing.
I don’t want this, but I’m here. Only a couple hundred feet away and I’ll be on the front porch. I don’t have any cash with me, but that’s never been a problem before. They know I’m good for it.
But I can’t. I’ve worked too hard for my sobriety. I’ve done too much, been through too much, and come too far to throw it all away on a high that can’t and won’t last.
And where has that gotten me? I’m a bitter as fuck recluse who wants nothing to do with the real world and only finds refuge in a man who has abandoned her for God only knows what. A new project, maybe. Or a woman who won’t throw up at the idea of being touched sexually. Maybe there’s more than one—several most likely. He’s Forsaken. They must throw themselves at him shamelessly, and I’ll bet he doesn’t turn them down. I’m never going to be for Ian what he is for me. I can’t be, not with how goddamn broken and fearful I am.
I take a few steps toward the house and pause before continuing. If I’m too fucked-up for Ian, then what’s the fucking point in even trying to stay sober?
There is no point.
Unless . . .
No. If I had a chance with him, I could find the strength to deny myself the bliss I know will come once I get my fix. But I don’t have enough strength on my own.
I walk up to the front door like I have a hundred times before, ring the bell, and wait. My brain remembers this, hasn’t forgotten how to score. So when the voice comes through the intercom, all slimy and up to no good, I’m not startled.
“What?” the disgusting voice says. I can’t remember his name. It’s something stupid, like Smirk or something, that he calls himself.
“I’m looking for some H,” I say.
There’s silence on the other end, which is normal. Except that it stretches out longer than I expect. Nobody comes to the door, and nobody says anything through the speaker. And still I wait and try to be patient. Every instinct I have tells me to make a run for it and to back out now. The moment I have it in hand, there won’t be any turning back. I’m not strong enough. Bouncing from foot to foot, I wait impatiently. Two minutes pass, and then five, and I’m about to chicken out and give up. This part always made me nervous and disgusted with myself. Now it’s too difficult to even think about who I was back then, when I was scoring on the regular.