ChapterEighteen
Alex
The pill bottle rattles in my hand. I don’t even care to check the label, too preoccupied with the way my teal-colored nails look against the slightly clear yellow plastic. Running my thumb up the side produces a soft sigh while I mentally check through my plan for the seventh time in the last hour.
Pool house. Pills. Freedom.
My phone lights up on the nightstand. After three days of incessant calls and texts, I put it on silent, hoping to avoid any interference. There’s no going back. The ledge is just a few steps away, and all I have to do is stay brave enough to step into the open cavern below.
Where Daddy is waiting for me.
A shuddering sigh sends me into my bedroom, the light from the bathroom illuminating my body and casting a long, gnarly shadow on the plush carpet. My phone screen lights up again. I notice a familiar name—Tomas—and curiosity shoves me in the direction of my phone.
Demetra called a dozen times just this morning. Coach Neill sent me an email and called twice. A few other people texted me.
But the text that makes me pause is from Tomas: “Are you okay?”
Those four boys are the most selfish pricks in the entire universe. They don’t care about anyone else because for them, no one else exists. But Lev, I think. And Tommy when he…
My lower lip curls with fury as tears blur my vision.
No, I’m not changing my mind. There’s no way out of this trap.
Shadows embrace me. A cool breeze dusts over my bare shoulders, prompting me to peer down at my black tank top and black designer jeans. My bare toes host the same color as my fingernails, a shimmering teal that contrasts my mood. The rips in the thighs of the jeans make me think Tomas would like these.
Panic stabs through my solar plexus. I shove the feeling away, knowing that panic is merely a last-ditch effort from my brain to prevent my plan. My body doesn’t want me to harm it—but how can it act that way when pain has been our only experience?
One more shuddering breath inspires me to move. I shove the pill bottles into my pocket, grab a bottle of water, and sling a towel over my shoulder. I’m just going for a swim. That’s all.
Tragedy struck the Moretti family late last night, the papers will say. No note was left behind when Alexandra Moretti drowned herself in the family pool house.
There’s moisture in the air when I step outside. Crickets chirp in the bushes as a breeze flutters the branches of the trees, the soft swish of their leaves putting me into a blissful state. The pool house door is unlocked. I don’t bother bolting it behind me, fully aware of how someone needs to discover me. Eventually.
And the maid’s scream was heard for miles around.
I settle in next to the crystal blue water, studying the way the underwater lights warp from the trickling fountain. My upper back tingles as I recall how I blew Lev in the chair behind me—and then he ate me out like I was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.
It’s all a lie.
I take a pill, sip the water, and then wait a few minutes to take another one. Suicide is an art that requires a patient hand. Most people think you’re just supposed to swallow everything all at once, but that’s not how it works. Killing yourself takes precious time. Every second counts.
Within thirty minutes, one bottle is gone. Another fifteen minutes pass before the second is gone. And then I throw my calculated plan to the fucking wind while guzzling the third bottle. At this point, it’s overkill, but who fucking cares? My head is full of cotton, and my vision is swimming with light.
My stomach churns violently. I crouch on my hands and knees, retching over the brick and ceramic glazed tile. I never quite noticed the distinct details of the brick, the texture, the way it catches my fingertips when I claw at it. The ground floats toward my face as foam bubbles in my mouth.
The pool house door slaps open, though the sound is far away, muffled. A warbled voice calls my name—Alexandra—the figure approaching me is made of wispy dark smoke—what did you do—the light in my eyes burns—what did you take—warm hands clutch my shoulders.
“Alexandra!”
My eyes pop as I look up at Tomas. Holy shit, he looks like a goddamn angel right about now, probably the most punk rock seraph I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.
“I went looking for you when Dad accused me of skimming off the top,” he explains, his voice feeling like fuzzy flies in my ears. “I put it all together when you didn’t answer.”
He sniffles.
Is he about to cry? Why would a devilish being like Tomas bother wasting tears over me?
He shakes me again, gritting his teeth as he growls, “Don’t you dare pass out.”