Blame it on the Tequila by Fiona Cole (the reading strategies book txt) 📕

and leave me here? Did he have multiple personalities and his other side came out and forgot about me? Did he die? Did he just change his mind? Or was this his plan all along? Or was he waiting until I was desperate enough to be grateful for his return?

Not a single idea filled me with anything but angry fear.

And through the hours and waiting and thinking, one person stayed on my mind more than anyone else: Parker.

That was a whole other kind of pendulum. Missing him and needing him. Doing nothing but imagining him bursting through the door, apologizing as he crumbled at my feet and saving me. Hating him for lying. Hating him for leaving. Screaming my anger as if he had been standing in front of me instead of this horrifying shade of gray and white.

All of that, only to crumble all over again and beg for him to find me because I loved him, and I needed him.

I closed my eyes, imagining him on his knees, begging me to forgive him for being so selfish and leaving me to talk to some producer. I imagined telling him it was okay and falling into his arms, but even my daydream stuttered over that, tripping over the resentment. I hated that I thought it but hated it even more because it was true. Sometimes I almost laughed at the irony of being left behind by a musician who forgot about me to follow his dreams. Maybe this was my destiny.

Another sharp jab like a knife cut through my abdomen, and I rolled to my side, my other arm aching from being held in the cuff.

A thud sounded, and I couldn’t tell if it was my blood sluggishly attempting to pump through my veins or my imagination. Whatever it was, I ignored it. Why bother when I was going to die here.

But then a louder crash came, impossible to put down to not being real. Especially when it was quickly followed by shouts.

“FBI,” a deep voice bellowed.

It reached up the stairs and pumped one last push of adrenaline through my body, and I struggled to sit up. I pushed to my elbows and shouted, barely managing a squeak. Trying to swallow was fruitless, my mouth like sandpaper, but I tried again.

This time I made a sound, and I did it again and again and again until I heard the same noise that started all this—thuds of steps coming up the stairs one creak at a time.

It wasn’t until a man in a jacket marking him as FBI came in with his gun drawn that the wall came down, uncovering the hope I’d blocked off. My body shook with sobs even though tears didn’t come.

Everything moved in a blur. They got my wrist free while barraging me with question after question. Other footsteps moved around the house, but I kept my eyes on the stairs just beyond the door. Freedom. I needed to get out of this house.

They had to carry me, but I would have crawled to see the sky. I’d never been so grateful to be outside—to feel the cool night breeze on my skin. I was loaded in the back of an ambulance and faded in and out, catching snippets of them telling me I was okay, that I would be okay.

But I was pretty sure that even now that I was free of the house, I was never going to be okay again.

And despite being free of my cage, the pendulums continued to swing.

I couldn’t wait to rage at Parker for not putting me first.

I couldn’t wait to see him, to find safety in his arms.

I couldn’t wait to slap him for not waiting like he promised.

I couldn’t wait for him to hold me.

I couldn’t wait to scream at him for leaving me.

I couldn’t wait to tell him I loved him.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

I wasn’t sure which side I’d settle on. All I knew was that no matter if I had anger or hope, I needed him there.

I needed him to not leave me again.

Twenty-Nine

Nova

It’s amazing what the mind can convince itself we’re capable of.

Sure, I could bungee jump off that bridge. I put myself up at the top, imagine myself looking down, and taking a deep breath past my fear. All I’d have to do was take one tiny step forward, and I’d be in it, exhilarated and brave.

But then you’re up there, and we didn’t prepare for how strong our body could react. We didn’t prepare for our nervous system to throw us into fight or flight mode so fast our legs almost give out. We didn’t prepare for our body’s reaction to reach out at the very last second and latch on to the safety we know, no matter how much we told ourselves we’d be fine, that the platform was boring, and we’d regret not taking the jump.

None of it mattered when your heart pumped so hard you were sure you’d pass out. Right then, nothing else mattered but feeling safe, solid, known ground under our feet.

When I strolled out of the bedroom the next morning after my night with Parker, a smile on my face, ready to refuel after all the work we put in, I was still on the platform. I was still hopeful, already strapped into my harness, still brave and ready to jump into the future with Parker.

But then I saw Aspen pacing behind the table, looking less put together than I’d ever seen, in yoga pants and band shirt, her hair in a messy bun. It was like staring at the edge of the platform that led to the abyss—the first tingle of something not quite going as planned.

I tried to backtrack, not wanting her to catch me strolling out of Parker’s room in just a robe. But before I could get far, she tossed her phone on the table, and her eyes snapped to mine.

Her expression was hard to place. Disappointment, frustration,