Bad Habit (Bad Love 1)

All this time, I thought Briar was lying. And she had no idea why I hated her—no idea that her own father was in on it. Fuck, there’s no going back now. I’ve put her through too much. The sound of her pleading with me not to leave haunts me every fucking day. Every hour. Every minute. I couldn’t set aside my feelings for once and just fucking be there for her.

Sound familiar? A voice in my head taunts me. The realization hits me like a goddamn freight train. I’ve turned into my father.

“Hey, fucker,” Dare barks, snapping me out of my self-loathing. “I need your help on the roof tonight. There’s a storm coming, and I have about three days to finish it. That is, unless you’ve got someplace else to be…” he trails off, in a not-so-subtle hint to deal with my life back in Cactus Heights.

“Jesus Christ, you nag worse than a chick.”

“Well, fuck. Someone has to. So, either get your ass on my roof or go home. And for fuck’s sake, take a shower. You’re starting to smell like roadkill.”

I hurl one of the couch pillows at his head, but he smacks it away. I scratch at a week’s worth of not shaving. He has a point.

“Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be up.” Dare shoots me a look I don’t care to decipher. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was disappointed with my answer.

“What?” I ask, irritated.

“Nothing,” he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I just never took you for a pussy.”

“Fuck off.”

I know I need to go back. I need to bury my dad and put Cactus Heights and everyone in it behind me—once and for all.

And I will.

Just not today.

Briar

Two weeks.

Two weeks have gone by, and it feels like an eternity. I called the funeral home yesterday, and they said John wasn’t having a service, but they did get the green light to proceed with the burial. If Asher’s back, or planning on attending, I have

n’t heard anything about it. My brother only knew John as the guy who beat the shit out of his best friend. Not the guy who was so overwhelmed with grief that he couldn’t function. Not the man who became a pseudo friend to me when I didn’t have anyone else. So, it’s safe to say he’s not going. Not to mention the fact that Dash still isn’t happy about us. I see it in the way his jaw hardens when Asher’s name comes up, and the hurt in his eyes when he’s faced with the reality that we both lied to him, repeatedly. Two selfish hearts, hiding and lying and sneaking, with blatant disregard to anyone else.

I thought about not going. Why should I? I barely knew John in the grand scheme of things, and it’s not like he was the best person in the world. Would Asher be upset by my presence? Is it appropriate for me to attend? All of these questions ran through my mind, but my gut kept telling me that none of that mattered. All morning, I’ve been thinking about that pigeon—the one Asher buried for me when I was a kid—and I had my answer.

With one last glance into the mirror, I take in my old black combat boots and matching knee-high stockings. My face mostly devoid of makeup. This is a day for mourning, after all. Mourning the death of the grieving father who hasn’t really been alive in years. Mourning the boy who lost both parents too soon. But most of all, I’m mourning the death of Asher and me. He abandoned me in that hospital. He broke his promise. Today is the day I bury the idea of us for good.

I tuck my wavy hair behind my ear, smooth the skirt of my simple black dress, and take a fortifying breath. The house is empty and strangely silent when I step out of my room. Dad went to stay at a hotel the first night before catching a flight back to California the next day, while Mom opted to stay with me for a few days. It was weird, but…nice, having her around. And I have a feeling I’ll be seeing more of her.

Dash, Adrian, and Nat have been taking turns handling me with kid gloves. I’ve told them repeatedly that I’m fine, and I am. I think. Nat had to do inventory for her mom’s shop today, and I talked my brother and Adrian into going to letting me breathe for five minutes, so I’m alone for the first time since the incident. That’s what I’m calling it now. It easier than saying, “That night when everyone’s secrets came to light, I got a concussion, Asher’s dad died, and then he left me without a word. Again.”

I walk outside, and the heat chokes me, even though it’s gloomy and overcast. The sky mimics my somber mood as I make my way to my car. I pause, halfway down the walkway when I see them. Mom’s succulents. I bend over, plucking two of them from their place in the garden. The excess dirt crumbles to the pavers at my feet. I’m reminded of the pigeon once again and how Asher risked crossing my mother by picking one of her precious succulents to give it a proper burial.

I’m on autopilot as I turn the ignition and drive to the All Souls Cemetery. I carefully place the plants into the bag in my passenger seat, thinking about how everything has changed in just a couple of short months. It’s been messy and emotional and awful and wonderful. People say it’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all, but those people have never been in love with Asher Kelley. He doesn’t dole out his love freely. He’s stingy with it, and when you’re on the receiving end, it feels like you’ve been awarded this extremely rare gift. Being loved by him is magic, but being left by him is tragic.

It’s surreal. I’ve driven past this cemetery more times than I can count. But it was never anything more than scenery, until now. I never thought about what was actually behind those gates. Inching past them, I find myself looking for Asher, without making a conscious decision to do so. I give myself a mental slap to the face. He’s not coming. He’s doing what he does best. Running.

The parking lot is crowded, so it takes me a few minutes before I find an open space. I follow the signs for tier nine, and plot forty-two, stopping to let a mob of grieving men, women, and children make their way to their loved one’s gravesite. Funny how people die every day, but the world keeps spinning, blissfully unaware. It makes me feel small and insignificant in this big world.

When I finally find plot forty-two, there’s one, single man standing with his head bowed, hands crossed in front of him with a Bible clasped in his fingers.

“Excuse me,” I say, pulling out my phone to double-check the information I was given. “Am I late?” The elderly bald man looks up, shock written all over his face.

“No,” he says, clearing his throat. “You’re the first one.”

I nod as I check the time—five after noon. He stands near the double headstone that reads Kelley in all capitals, with Isabel’s name on the left and John’s on the right. The dates aren’t carved in on his side yet, and I think of how incredibly bizarre and depressing it must be to plan your own funeral.

We wait in silence for another ten minutes before it’s clear that no one else is coming.