If You Stay (Beautifully Broken, #1)(60)

I stare into the distance, not noticing as the beach falls away under my feet. I don’t even know how far I go, until at last I can no longer breathe. My f*cking lungs hurt so much and there is still a f*cking lump in my throat, lodged so tightly that no amount of swallowing or running or heavy breathing will move it.

“Fuuuuccckkkkk!”

I turn and shout at the lake, screaming as loud as I can. The vibration of it rips against my vocal chords, bruising them in the cold.

But I don’t care. I f*cking deserve it. I shout again and again, until my voice grows hoarse. And then I drop onto the beach, leaning against a big piece of driftwood. I am limp and spent. My forehead is somehow sweaty, even though it is cold outside. The cold wind blows against it, giving me chills.

But I don’t care.

I f*cking deserve it.

I deserve to get pneumonia and die out here in the cold.

I stare blankly at the lake now, trying to tune out rational thought or logic or memories or emotion. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here or how much time passes before I see someone making their way down the beach. I see a flash of red and a long coat.

Mila.

I can just barely see the neck of her red turtleneck sweater poking out of her heavy coat. She trudges along the beach, her slim form bent against the wind. I can tell when she sees me because her pace quickens and it only takes her a minute more to reach me.

“Pax,” she shouts. “Oh my god. Thank god. What are you thinking? It’s cold out here. You’re going to get pneumonia.”

I stare up at her. It’s the weirdest feeling, but I simply don’t care about anything. I don’t care if I catch pneumonia. It wouldn’t bother me at all.

She leans down and grabs my hand, pulling me to my feet.

“Come on,” she tells me. “We’re going back to the house. You don’t even have a coat on.”

And I don’t care. But I don’t tell Mila that. I just let her lead me to the house, up the stairs and into the kitchen.

“You’re frozen,” she says, turning to me. Her face is stricken as she strips off her coat and tosses it onto a chair. “I’m going to run you a hot bath. You have to warm up.”

She disappears down the hall and I remain standing limply in place.

Nothing matters.

Not anymore.

[page]I know now what the void was that was always in me. It was this. This horrible knowledge. Even though my mind was concealing it, deep down in a hidden place, I knew. It’s why I’ve always felt empty, why I always welcomed oblivion.

Only now, the void isn’t empty. It’s filled with overwhelming pain and guilt. And I don’t know what to do about it. I feel like I’m being pulled under.

Mila comes back and seems surprised that I haven’t moved. She looks at me uncertainly, her green eyes liquid. She doesn’t say anything though. She just grabs my hand and tugs me to the bathroom. She pulls off my clothes and kicks them into a pile on the floor.

“Get in,” she instructs me firmly. “Your skin is bright red.”

I obediently step into the tub, even though I haven’t taken a bath since I was small. The hot water sends a thousand needles prickling through my limbs, but I don’t care. I settle into the tub and close my eyes, blocking out everything.

“Pax,” Mila begins. But then she changes her mind. “Never mind. I’ll check on you soon. I have your prescription, but since you drank so much whiskey, I don’t think you should take it.”

I don’t say anything.

When I open my eyes a moment later, she is gone. I close them again.

The problem is, when my eyes are closed, I see her face. My mother’s.

Her eyes are wide open and staring at me. Dead. I did that to her. It was me. The guy wasn’t going to kill her—I bumped his finger on the trigger.

It was all my fault.

Pain rips through me and I lurch to my feet, punching the tiled wall. I don’t even feel that pain-the pain in my chest far overshadows it. I grab a towel and dry off, pulling my underwear on.

I’ve got to do something.

I can’t live like this.

********

Mila



As Pax soaks, I put some water on for tea. As I do, his cell phone rings on the counter. I glance at it and see Paul Tate’s name. I reach for it hesitantly. Should I answer it? My gut says yes.

“Hello?” I am still uncertain.

“Hello,” a surprised Paul Tate answers. “Is Pax available? This is his father.”

“Just a moment,” I tell him. I want to say so much more, but I don’t. I just climb the stairs to the bathroom and open the door, only to find the room empty. The tub is still full of water, but Pax isn’t here.

Hell.

“He’s not where I thought he was,” I tell his dad. “I’ll have to find him.”

I start walking down the hall, but Paul interrupts me.

“Wait,” he says. “How is he? I received a voicemail from him. He said he’s remembered what happened to his mother.”

Anger rips through me. This man concealed this stuff from Pax for years. He had to know that it was going to come bubbling to the surface at some point. Didn’t he care about that? Didn’t he care what it was doing to Pax all along?

“How do you think he’s doing?” I ask coolly. “Not well. Nobody would handle it well.”