Sometimes Never (14 page)

             
“For now,” he agrees. “Park won’t be able to handle it, he’s had her all to himself for too long, but if you’re the one who sticks it out...” Guy lets the sentence float between us.

             
“You’re giving me a headache.” I heave a sigh, turning my attention to the window. I press my head to it. “I like her. Way too much honestly. I just need to decide if she’s worth all this.” It’s a flat out lie because I already know she is. I also know I’m going to go along with what she wants. And I’m pretty damn sure it’s going to turn me into a raving lunatic. Hell, I’m already questioning my sanity.

             
“She is,” Guy says quietly.

16

Hope

Sometimes I think my veins run with poison. We’re all slowly dying, right? From the moment we’re born, our time dwindles away. Like some countdown we’re not privy to. We can die at any moment. I could be walking down the street one day, minding my own business, and then, BAM. Hit by a truck, massive heart attack, some random disease, shot in the chest, stabbed in the back, aneurism, cancer. Who knows?
Anything
. Anything could happen at
any
second.

             
So why bother? Why bother meeting people? Making friends? Caring about someone? Falling in love? It’s just going to end. Taken away, ripped from my hands. Tore from my heart.

             
I have enough scars.

             
This is why I’m standing in the middle of my bathroom, naked, clutching a razor blade between my thumb and finger. I need to release the poison. The fear. The anger. I want the pain that festers inside of me—
out
. I want it on the outside. On my flesh. Where I say how I hurt. Where I say when. Where I say for how long. Where I say stop. Where I
can
stop it.

             
I’m so ugly.

             
I am so fucking ugly
.

My insides are disgusting.  There is nothing good inside of me. I’m not a nice person. I’m not smart. I’m not funny. I am selfish. Mean. There is nothing special about me. I can’t stand the sight of myself. I hate myself. I hate everything that makes me,
me
.

I have enough scars.

I do not have enough scars.

Light hits the blade of the razor. I twist my hand, allowing it to pass over my face. What would happen if I cut there? Right across my face where everyone could see. Everyone would know.
Maybe someone would finally stop me.

I shiver. My secret is all I have.

Pressing the razor flat against my stomach, I take a deep breath. Push my belly out to shove against my savior. I could mar all my skin. Then nobody would want me. Nobody would look at me. My outsides could mirror the sickening rot that lives beneath.

I pull up on the grip so the sharp edge is poised against flesh. I need the bi
te of this instrument so badly.

My phone sounds. I jump, the blade nearly going to work before I’m ready. Blackbird plays, filling the bathroom with its soft melody.

And I lose it. I lose my shit as I drop the razor into the sink. It makes a tinkling sound as it bounces and slides across the porcelain.

If I answer it, he’ll know I’m crying. He’ll want to know why.

I don’t want him to know.

I want him to know.

He will probably hate me. I don’t want him to hate me.

I want him to hate me.

“Hello?”

“Hope? Hey.”

“H-Hey.”

“You all right? You sound upset?” Mason’s voice trembles over the last word.
Why does his voice tremble?   

“…I’m…I’m…
fine
.” I’m whispering. Like maybe he’ll believe me if he can’t hear me well. I don’t want him to hate me. I don’t want that at all because he makes me feel like I have someone I can talk to. That I can trust. That I can love.

My breath catches. I am incapa
ble of loving like that.

The mere fact that I want to love him, that I can imagine myself loving him… My stomach clenches. I drop the phone and flip the toilet seat up as I begin emptying the sad contents of my stomach. Cake and tequila.

Awesome.

My forehead feels hot in a majorly uncomfortable way. Sweat bead
s on my neck and above my lip.

My cell phone shouts my name, muffled by the pale pink rug in front of the bathtub. I wipe my mouth on Annie’s towel—she’s going to be pissed—and I pick up the phone.

“Mason?”

“Are you
okay? Are you sick?”

“No. No. I mean, yes. I just got sick.” I pause here because I want to say something, I think. I want to tell him about the cutting. That he just stopped me from doing it. That he’s the
reason I was getting ready to do it. But that last part isn’t true, and how do I say something like that anyway? “I’m fine now.”

I can hear his soft breaths. I can almost feel them against my ear and my own breathing slows until it matches his. “You don’t sound fine.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re not fine?” he asks slowly. There’s this tone to his voice. Low, concerned. It makes me shiver. “Go see if you can catch them.”

“What?”

“No. Not you. I was talking to Kellin.” There’s a scratchy sound, his phone pressed against his chest. His next words echo deeply, garbled and scruffy. “Tell them we’re going back.” A pause. Another scratching sound. “Hope?”

“Mm-hm?”

“We’ll be there in a few minutes. Did you take anything? Drink anything else?”

“No. I’m not fucked up.” And then I laugh. Because I am so fucked up. I am the most
fucked up person
in the world.

“I think something’s wrong with her. Hurry up. Hope?”

“Yeah, there is something wrong with me.” I laugh again as tears fill my eyes. Pathetic. A sob rips at my throat and I choke on it. “There is something so incredibly wrong with me, Mason. You don’t want any part of this. Of me. You can’t.” And I hit the end button. I stare at it until my vision blurs. The end button. Yeah, that sums it up nicely. I just hit the end button on Mason Patel.

Pushing myself up, I flush the toilet. I place the razor gingerly back where it belongs.
I wash my face and brush my teeth. I put a pair of pajamas on and then I drop onto my bed, willing my eyes to dry.

I don’t cry
.

I didn’t cry when the police officer showed up at the door and I knew something was wrong. I didn’t cry when he informed me my mom had died. Didn’t cry when he made me pack a bag and took me to CPS.

I didn’t even cry at her funeral.

I never cried when she left me. When the boyfriends looked at me. When the asshole touched me.

              So why am I crying right now?

             
What the hell is wrong with me?

             
I press my ear buds into place and turn my iPod up loudly. Something fast. Something angry. Something to numb me so I don’t go back into that bathroom. I can’t with Mason on his way.

             
I close my eyes. Squeeze them tightly.

             
My mom was crazy. One minute, she was this fun, caring mom. She would be happy. Smiling. Laughing. She would want to be with me. We would play games. Stupid games. Who could finish their breakfast the quickest? Who could take the most steps? Freeze dance. Hide and scream. Those times were good.

             
Then in the next moment, she would snap. Screaming. Throwing things. Everything was my fault. Get evicted for not paying the rent because she drank the money away. That was my fault. Boyfriend left her after spending one night in bed. That was my fault. Stretch marks. My fault. Car won’t start. Ran out of smokes. Bad breath. Communicable disease. Poverty. World hunger. All. My. Fault.

             
And then there were the drugs. The alcohol. The men. My mom was addicted to them all. So much so, they were her first—no, her only—priority.

There was a time where my mom
was pretty. I would look at her and I would think she was a princess. Her hair was thick and shiny. Her eyes bright. Even her skin was radiant.

Do you know what happens to someone’s body when it’s ravished by addiction? It changes. So slowly
, it’s not noticeable until it’s too late.

Toward
the end, her hair was dull and thin, showing signs of graying. Her eyes sunk into her skull, dark bags engulfing them. Her skin yellowed and sagged. She was this useless, scrawny, brittle
thing
that I didn’t—couldn’t—recognize.

My mom was bitter. Lonely. Sad.

There are times, I look in the mirror, and I see her. I. See.
Her
.

And the realization strikes again. I am her daughter. Mental disease is often hereditary. Often comes on quickly. Oft
en as a person gets older. Let’s face it, I cut myself. I am not a stable person. I walk a tight rope, fifty feet in the air, without a net, over sharp rocks, every single day of my life.

Pushing Mason away is like charity or something. The right thing to do. It’s the
noble
thing to do. I’m saving him. From me.

17

Mason

              The party’s still going pretty strong when we get back to the house. We leave Chase and Kellin in the yard and I follow Guy into the house. He takes the stairs two at a time up to Hope’s room. He seems worried, which makes me worried.

             
Without knocking, Guy opens the door. Hope is lying on her bed, arm draped over her eyes, iPod on her stomach. I just stand there, watching like some bystander as Guy crawls onto the bed. She doesn’t acknowledge him until he wraps his arms around her. When his face presses against hers, she drops her arm and turns into him. He whispers in her ear and her hands knot into fists, pulling on the sleeves of his shirt, clinging to him. She needs his comfort.

             
I don’t know what I’m witnessing, but I feel like I’m intruding. As if I’m creeping on some personal moment. I take a step back and Guy puts his index finger up, gesturing for me to hold on. So I wait with my hands in my pockets, trying not to watch them sprawled out on the bed. And I try not to be jealous. It’s not like I think something’s going on between them. But he has an obvious connection that I wish I had with her.

             
Guy puts the finger up again, this time signaling me over to him. He rolls out from Hope’s embrace and guides me until I am filling his spot.

             
Hope’s arms grip my waist, her nails cutting into my skin, but I barely notice it as she pushes her head into my neck. The room goes dark and I register the click as the door closes. I kiss the top of her head, my hands trailing up and down her back as I wait for her to say something.

             
She doesn’t.

             
“Are you feeling better?” I ask. My voice sounds loud in the quiet blackness. I feel the movement of her head as she shakes it in answer. No. She doesn’t feel better.

             
“Are you still sick? Are you going to throw up again?”

             
“I’m not sick.” She sighs and moves her head to my chest. Her finger traces a pattern on my stomach. “I threw up because...” Her body shakes as she inhales a jerky breath. “I have to tell you something.”

             
“Okay.” I swallow hard. My throat is tight, resisting the movement. My hand stops on her back and I squeeze her, willing her to go on.

             
“I’m not good for you. I have so much baggage, so many skeletons in my closet, so many
issues
, I need a storage unit for all the overflow. I’m fucked up. And if you hang around me too long, I’ll fuck you up too.”

             
It’s probably a terrible thing to do, but I laugh. “Everybody is fucked up. I’m already fucked up. I promise you that.”

             
Her head moves again, shaking out a denial. “No, you’re not. You’re so great. You’re sweet and funny. And good. You’re happy and I’ll take that away from you.”

             
I close my eyes and replay her words. “I am happy. Now. But I wasn’t. I mean—” I take a deep breath and blow it out. “I wasn’t depressed or anything, but I wasn’t happy. We haven’t known each other very long, but I like being with you. I wish I could be with you all the time. I’m happy when I am.”

             
I can hear music playing outside. Another southern rock song. Something old. Hope is quiet. Maybe listening to the song. Her fingers move under my shirt, tracing her pattern on my skin. My stomach twitches at her touch. It feels so good. I could stay like this for the rest of my life.