Blue

My first week without Harry was spent locked in my attic bedroom, surviving on peanut butter and Nutella sandwiches and cigarettes. That was it. I didn’t want to think or move or even remotely pretend the outside world was something that actually existed. I’d lost him. We ended our relationship over a fucking picture—a picture that was me being clumsy and Louis being a nice guy.

And, of course, I’d reacted completely rationally: by fucking Louis. Twice.

And, I’d made out with Liam which was poor judgment because I really liked Liam. Not like liked. I mean, I like liked him when I let him touch me basically wherever he wanted. No doubt I would have ended up fucking him too if Louis hadn’t pulled me into the bedroom and started taking my clothes off. Whatever. We were all adults. I knew what I was doing when I’d gone to their room, started drinking and smoking pot with them, and ended up making out with both of them. And then fucking Louis.

Twice.

God damn it, I didn’t even care anymore. I was absolutely numb. I knew this was just me sorting out grief: all five stages. First was denial and isolation. Eventually I’d get mad at him for being an asshole and then, no doubt, I’d get to the bargaining phase where I tried to trick myself into believing that if I’d just only done this or that—not walked with Louis back from the bathroom, for example—this never would have happened. And then would come depression. And then, maybe, someday I’d accept it.

Getting to that fifth stage, though, actually being able to accept the fact that I’d never, ever be his again was going to be the hardest part. He was gone; actually gone. I was never going to see that light in his eyes when he looked at me or kiss his soft lips. His body wasn’t going to respond to my touch and I’d never, ever again hear him call me his Laney love.

If the house had collapsed around me and buried me underneath timbers and bricks, I’d have been happy.

He was a man, just a man. He wasn’t a king or a god or anything more than a sweet, green eye boy who’d once loved me. And yet, I was fairly sure I’d rather be dead than live without him.

By the time I’d been home two weeks, my mother threatened to have me admitted to a psychiatric hospital against my will. Too much sitting in your room, she said, too much crying and wailing and acting like a lost child. You’ve been a lost child, Delaney, and you handled that better than being dumped.

Words of wisdom from a hag.

Since I didn’t want to be hospitalized and I sure as hell didn’t want to talk to anyone—especially no one in my immediate family—I yanked my comforter off my bed and padded down to the basement, going as far as to taping a sheet of paper to the door, which read: Leave me the fuck alone. My mother crossed out the word fuck in less than ten minutes. Whatever.

About eighteen days into my self-imposed exile, Ben ignored my sign and came down to the basement, flopping down in the arm chair beside me. I barely looked up from my cocoon of goose down and soft, silky blue fabric. “The fuck do you want?”

“Just seeing how you’re doing. Mom’s worried. Everyone else is worried.”

“Fabulous. I’m shitty, thanks for asking.”

“Have you been keeping up with the news? Because, it’s getting really interesting now.” He paused, waiting for me to make some sort of response. When I didn’t, he continued, “I guess that kid Louis is suing the magazine who printed the pictures of you two. Something like, twenty million dollars for slander. Actually, this article is wrong because slander is spoken. It should be libel. Libel is written.”

“Well, fucking good for Louis.”

“Harry hasn’t made any statements yet.”

I buried my face into the soft fabric of my comforter and groaned. “Ben. Honestly. Do I look like someone who fucking cares what Harry Styles is doing right now? Because I don’t. He’s probably fucking someone. And I don’t fucking care.”

Ben sighed. He actually fell silent for several uncomfortable seconds and then said, “So, look, I’ve pieced this entire case together from what I read online. I live in the same house as one of the players. You can tell me what happened.”

“I’m not a case file, Ben. This is real fucking life.” I slunk up into a sitting position, arching my back like some kind of cat/cow yoga movement. “And it’s shit. Honestly, if I’m going to survive the next few months, I’m going to need something stronger than coffee but less than cocaine. Do you still know that kid who deals? I could use Oxy or something.”

“No.” He paused for like, two milliseconds for launching into what I assumed was his version of an opening statement. “So, from what I understand is that you and this Louis kid had your pictures taken in what looks like compromising positions. But you never fucked him.”

“Oh, I fucked him alright.”

Ben looked legitimately surprised. “Wait. What?”

“I fucked him after I walked out on Harry. Twice, actually.” I stared down my brother. Judge me, douche bag. Judge me because I was ready to fuck all three remaining members of One Direction, just to piss Harry Styles off. “And I made out with Liam.”

“Okay. First, I don’t know who Liam is and I don’t care. Second? If you fucked him after you walked out on Harry, then it doesn’t count.” He paused. “But Harry didn’t want to hear it, did he?”

“No. He called me a whore.”

“Because of the pictures?”

“Obviously.”

Ben shook his head. “I’m sorry, Laney, he’s an asshat. Any man who doesn’t respect you enough to discuss things with you and doesn’t trust you—doesn’t deserve you.”

“Well…thank you for that. That’s,” I glanced at him, raising my eyebrows up, “surprisingly kind of you.”

“Jesus, you look like shit.”

I flopped down face first on the couch, pulling my blanket back up over my head. “Ben. Look, I appreciate your attempt to keep me company or unwillingly drag me back into society. Whatever. But I’m miserable. Let me wallow in my misery and my unhappiness and my whorish behavior.”

“Mom is going call Doctor Mott.”

I was too depressed to do any more than flip the blanket back from my face. “I have a minor in psychology. There’s no mental status exam that I can fail. No, doctor, I don’t have suicidal ideations. I shower and dress and brush my hair and balance my check book and have thorough concentration and judgment.”

“Christ, Laney, you’re a fucking mess. You know the last time you were like this? It was right after—“

“I swear to God, Ben.” The last thing I wanted was for him to start bitching about Mark again. “As you may recall, I’m not the one who asked for company. You just showed up down here.”

“You’re losing weight.”

“Maybe I’m working out.” He snorted and then got considerably quieter. “Well, if it’s any consolation, a surprising amount of his fans are on your side. I mean, if we’re taking sides here. Team Laney? Team Harry?”

“Go away, Ben.”

“Tell me you don’t love this kid anymore. Seriously, tell me that you’re completely secure in your decision to walk out. You can just, switch it on and off for him? Is that how it works?”

“Fuck you.” I snapped. “You weren’t there when he was flipping out on me. Am I over him? No—I’ll never be over him. I adored that man. But, I’m not going to sit and mourn the fact it’s over. That’s letting him win.”

He sighed and headed up the staircase. “Look, Lanes. The whole thing is shit. But if he’s stupid enough to walk away from you, you need to be smart enough to let him go.”

Tears welled up in my eyes, clouding my vision completely. Harry was always going to be my unfinished business. I hated him for the things he’d said. I hated him for accusing me of things I hadn’t done and for not taking just two seconds to listen to what I had to say. I desperately wished I could hurt him the way he hurt me.

But I knew if I had the chance, I couldn’t do it.

****

I stared at the burning end of my cigarette, taking another swig of bourbon from the bottle. Life was shit. I kept trying to trick myself into forgetting how long it had been since I’d seen him. But I knew. I always knew. Two weeks, then three. Now it was four weeks, two days.

Extinguishing the cigarette against my ankle bone, I sucked in a sharp breath at the searing pain. It grounded me. I popped another cigarette out of the carton and shoved it in my mouth, lighting it and taking a deep drag. I heard someone climbing up the treehouse ladder, but that too I didn’t particularly care about. Maybe it was Death. At least I knew it wasn’t my mom or my sisters. They were steering clear of me. Ben kept trying to get me to talk to him but I’d established a tidy little routine: eat with my family. Speak when spoken to, answer questions with vague generalities, and then right back up to my room or the basement.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t Death. It was Vi.

I exhaled smoke out of the corner of my mouth and away from her face, which I thought was rather polite. “If you’re here to say ‘I told you so,’ you can fuck off.”

She shook her head, climbing the rest of the way into the treehouse. “Can I bum a smoke?”

I stared at her for a minute and then handed her the pack and the lighter. She lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Shit, this is just like being in eighth grade again.”

I laughed. The sound seemed foreign to my ears. “Yeah, pretty much. I’ve got bourbon now, though, which frankly is what it means to be an adult. Bourbon and the disappointment that is life.” I raised the bottle to her. “Here’s to the girls who are lost. When it hits you so much harder than you thought it would.”

She looked away from me, staring down at her perfectly pedicured toenails. After several uncomfortable moments of silence, she finally said, “I’m sorry about what happened.”

“No need to be sorry, Vi. He got what he wanted; he got his rocks off and now he’s moved on.” I shrugged. “So, I was a hookup. Just like you said.”

She sighed. “No, Laney. I don’t think you were. When you decided just to, you know, start ignoring me for whatever reason—“

“Yeah, that was shit. Sorry.”

“Okay, yeah, that was shit. But you’re my best friend. I kept up with what you were doing and…you just looked so happy, Lanes. He made you happy.”

“Let me quote him directly, Vi.” I flicked cigarette ashes into a tin can we’d had in the treehouse for years. “He said, ‘We were just too young. It wasn’t real.’ He said that he’d had me the whole time, that I was just a hookup and desperate for attention.”

She stared at me. Before I knew what she was doing—and way before I could stop her—she yanked my shirt sleeve up. Scabbed over cut marks lined my wrist and up my arm. “You’re cutting yourself again?”

I jerked my arm back. “It’s none of your business.”

“I’m your friend.”

“It’s the only way I know that I can still feel!” I almost screamed it at her. I tossed my cigarette into the ash can and doubled over, pressing my face to my knees and bursting into tears. “I don’t love me, Vi, so I can completely understand why he doesn’t either.”

“No, no, no, Laney.” She shuffled over to me and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. “You are a wonderful person. You deserve to be loved and you deserved more than him. If he loved you, he would have moved mountains to get you back. You did nothing wrong.”

“I can’t just turn it off.” The tears were flowing freely now, as if some kind of dam had burst inside me. “He broke me. And every time—every fucking time—my phone vibrates, I hope it’s him. My heart is so tired, Vi. But for the rest of my life, I know I’m going to be searching for moments that were full of him. This isn’t fair.”

“You didn’t let him go, Laney. He pushed you away.”

“I have nothing left, Vi.” I sat up, wiping my tears away. “I got a letter from school: I missed the deadline to register for classes and pay my next semester payment. But, I guess that doesn’t really matter, because I got fired from my job. I was too much of a ‘distraction’ for sleeping with him. I have no job, no money, and no fucking education.”

“We can to go the registrar’s office—“

“I tried that, Violet. I didn’t miss the deadline by like, two hours. I missed it by three weeks.” I dug my cigarette out of the ashes and tried to relight it. “It doesn’t matter, though, because I’m broke. I have no money.”

She pried the cigarette out of my hand and shoved it back in the can. “Have you talked to your mom?”

“Fuck no. She’s on her high horse that she was right all along, that he’d just been using me for sex. ‘Just another name to add to his list of conquests,’ fuck, I haven’t even told her I got fired. I told her I took extended time away to get over this shit.”

“You know as well as I do that you’re not just going to snap out of this. No one expects you to.” She hesitated awkwardly, like she didn’t actually want to say whatever it was that was on the tip of her tongue. I could read her like a book.

“Just say it, Vi. Come on.”

“Have you heard from…uh…any of them?”

“Liam called me a few times but I haven’t picked up. Louis texts me every day.”

“Did you sleep with him?”

“Yeah. Twice.”

Her eyes widened.

“Only after Harry and I broke up.” I shrugged, brushing my hair back from my face and twisting it up into a messy bun. “I literally went from my and Harry’s room to Louis’s room. I made out with Liam. And…uh…then I fucked Louis.”

“He’s suing that news outlet. Twenty million.”

“Ben filled me in.”

“Harry still hasn’t said anything. They’re doing the tour—“

“Vi, I really don’t care.”

“I just wanted to say that the only paparazzi photos of him he looks awful.”

“Terrific.”

She sighed and stretched out her legs in front of her, draping her arm over my shoulders. “Have you and Louis talked things over?”

“Nope.” I shook my head. “He knew that I was just fucking him for a good time. There wasn’t any kind of expectations or anything. I haven’t even texted him back, other than to let him know I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay.”

I smiled at her. “See? I’m fine.”

“Laney,” she sighed again and hugged me. “Look, I really think you should talk to someone about this. Someone professional.”

“Fuck no. First of all? The world thinks I’m a whore. I probably am a whore, seeing as how Louis and I were fuck buddies and Liam had his hands in my pants and his tongue down my throat. I’ve never been so ashamed in my life. Second? When Harry and I made things public between us, I was given a shit list of things I could and could not do. Talking to a professional about how much he broke my heart and makes me feel like shit probably was on the ‘do not do’ list.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine.”

“I know you better than that; you aren’t fine.”

“Maybe not now, but I will be.” It sounded like a lie the second the words left my mouth. “Right now, I’m waking up. I’m surviving. And then I’m going back to bed. It’s been four weeks, two days. Tomorrow it will be four weeks, three days.”

“Will you at least consent to coming over to the apartment for dinner? We’ll watch a movie or something.”

“Well, seeing as how I still have driver’s license, you’ll have to come here.”

“Tomorrow night, then. I’ll bring Chinese food.”

“Sounds good.”

She rose up on her knees and then, suddenly, leaned over and hugged me. “You’re strong, Laney. You are beautiful and funny and sweet and you deserve to be loved.”

“Thank you, Vi.” I patted her back in a half-hearted hug. “That’s very touching.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I watched her walk across the yard in the direction of the house, no doubt on her way to report back to my mother. Whatever. I was tired of all this shit, so fucking tired of everyone in my house—and now Violet—asking me if I was okay. No, I’m not fucking okay. My heart was broken.

I slid backwards to an overturned egg crate underneath an oversized windowsill we used to try and grow lima beans in jars on. Mark was a clumsy fool. But he’d left the good shit here: heroin.

It was just a small plastic baggy, just enough. There was also a spoon and a syringe—I was fairly sure the syringe had already been used.

And I honestly didn’t care.

I unlaced my shoelace from one of my shoes and frantically wrapped it around my arm, tightening it in place by tugging it taut with my teeth. I patted the inside of my elbow, trying to get my veins to stick out. Fuck, it was always so hard to find them…and I hadn’t actually done this in years.

I dumped the white powder into the spoon and started heating it up with my lighter. All I wanted was to forget; to feel that rush of euphoria followed by the dead, numb feeling. I couldn’t drink him away. I couldn’t cut him away. Maybe this would work.

Wiping the syringe on my jeans, I used it to suck up the liquid. My hands were shaking. Tears again flooded my eyes and, the longer I stared at my arm trying to figure out where to stab the needle, the dizzier and more nauseous I felt. I felt like I couldn’t even get a breath—like my lungs couldn’t fill with enough oxygen to keep me conscious.

I threw the syringe across the treehouse, rolling onto my stomach and bursting into fresh tears. God damn it. I couldn’t even do this right.

My cell phone buzzed next to me. I glanced at it: Liam.

Are you okay? I’m worried about you.

I sucked in a shaky breath and picked up the phone.

No. No I wasn’t.

Notes