The next two weeks are miserable. Sinful Serenade launches their new single No Way in Hell—the song about me.
It's an overnight success. It hits number one on the alternative chart, number four on the pop chart. The music video hits ten million downloads by the end of its first week. The thing is gorgeous and stark. It's in black and white. Half is the band playing on the beach, waves crashing around them. The other half is Miles in an empty bedroom, his eyes filled with hurt.
I understood In Pieces like the words were written in my soul. Why can't I figure this song out? I'm sure it's about me. But I'm not sure what it means.
How can he write a song about me in one breath then tell me I don't deserve to look into his heart in the next?
The song follows me everywhere. It's on every Spotify playlist and Google Play Music station. The damn thing plays every hour on KROQ. I can't go into a store or a restaurant or a coffee shop without hearing it.
The words mock me.
Three a.m. and I can't sleep.
A common refrain, I know.
As a sentiment, it's cheap.
Someone to call, to hold,
to love. No way that word—
She smiles and I drift away—
Oh hell no.
This can't be.
No way I, no way she.
Anyone else, maybe,
but not me.
I don't do this kind of thing.
Love. He's using the word love in reference to me. He can share his feelings with the world, but he can't share them with me.
He's not talking to me. Not texting me. He doesn't apologize. He doesn't even ask to cash in on our benefits.
I mean nothing to him.
Chapter Nineteen
The Friday before Halloween is particularly busy. I barely have the energy to make it through my shift. Kara's party is tomorrow night. I have no idea how I'm supposed to survive the war my heart and my body are going to wage being in the same room as Miles.
A teenage girl is rushed into the ER. She's unconscious, barely breathing. Her lips are blue. She's thin enough the breeze could break her, and her arms are covered in track marks.
One is fresh.
A few hours old max.
Her mother is at her side. She's clueless. She's lost. Confused. She had no idea her daughter was on drugs.
How could she have no idea? There's no way this girl is any older than sixteen. She's covered in track marks. How the hell did Mom miss that?
The girl is dying.
Dr. Anderson, the doctor I scribe for, pushes me out of the way. "Take five, Meg."