Tyler became quiet. I only felt victorious for a few seconds, and then it was gone. My pride and guilt both seemed to stem from the same hollow, but they filled nothing. I wasn’t sure where the need to keep Tyler at arm’s length came from. Part of me wanted to believe it was to focus on sobriety that was shamefully failing, the other that as individuals we were too fucked up to function. I let him just close enough to feel loved, and then threw him into the corner like dirty laundry. For someone who at most times was scared he would leave, I was trying incredibly hard to push him away.

I was getting one thing right: being undeserving. The shame sent me into another cycle of guilt and need and feelings of worthlessness. I wasn’t getting better; I was getting worse.

“Is it so fucking hard for you to admit, Ellie? Can’t we just be happy?”

I swallowed. “We aren’t a we. I’ve told you that from the beginning.”

“Then what are we doing?”

“We’re fucking and fighting, Tyler. That’s what we do.”

“Fucking and fighting.” Clearly shocked and frustrated, Tyler stumbled over his words. He finally laughed once out of frustration. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“We’ll talk about it when I get home.”

I hung up, instantly feeling sick to my stomach. I couldn’t keep busy to stay sober, deal with everything going on in my life, and pile on a serious relationship, no matter how much I wanted to.

The phone rang, and I answered, mostly scheduling meetings and fielding ad questions for Wick. He left once and then came back, putting his fist on my desk as he read my report over my shoulder.

He stood up and sighed, then turned on his heels, slamming his door behind him. The frames on the walls rattled, and my shoulders shot up to my ears. I’d worked for the magazine for a little over five months and had yet to experience Wick’s wrath. Maybe it was time.

The door was yanked open, and then I heard Wick sit in his leather chair. “Ellie!” he yelled.

I stood, pausing in the doorway, expecting a minor verbal assault.

“You’re a good kid. We’ve pushed you too hard,” he said, staring at the bookcase behind me.

“P-pardon?” It was almost more unsettling that he wasn’t screaming at me.

“I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to facilitate your … issues. I’m not sure what to do. I’m not the type to just ignore this kind of behavior, Ellie. You could’ve gotten seriously injured, or worse. Is that cut…?”

I touched my cheek. I’d forgotten about the slap nature had delivered to my face—not that I’d felt it until hot blood dripped down my cold skin. “Yes.”