And I break her down more and more because it feels like vengeance. It feels like love when it’s the opposite. It feels real and raw.

And then I realize it’s because I’m actually feeling, and I haven’t felt since the night my dad died.

I’ll keep pushing her as long as she pushes back.

Maybe one day I’ll be the one that gets pushed so far I go off the cliff.

Maybe she’ll be the one to end my misery and loneliness with her hate.

Cheers.

Chapter Nineteen

Mary-Belle

I don’t want to go back to the party, but I want to piss Ambrose off even more, and I can’t be found guilty of his murder if he does something stupid or, as I said before, drowns in a pool of his own vomit with only me as a witness.

I put on a pair of short designer jean shorts, a white crop top and add some slides, I was tempted to actually put on another dress, but I’m too tired. I pull my wet hair back in a scrunchy, make my way down the stairs, and nearly collide with Xander once I’m in the kitchen.

It’s just us; everyone else is either swimming or outside drunkenly dancing.

Xander has really blue eyes and looks off—like he is clearly high on something. His blonde hair is tucked under a black Supreme beanie.

“Oh, sorry.” I smile and sidestep him so I can go outside.

He grabs me by the elbow and jerks me against his massive body. He’s easily like six foot three. “Don’t be. Maybe I want you to run into my dick.”

“Huh?” I pry myself away only to have his hands come to my hips. I stumble against him. Gross. I don’t want to be drunkenly groped in my own home. I wonder when I even started thinking about it as my home.

Maybe when I had no choice.

Or maybe when Ambrose said it was.

“Knew it,” Xander says. He’s beautiful in an I probably got into Harvard already way. But I don’t like him; I don’t want him kissing me or touching me, and I’m suddenly transported back to all the foster homes.

Getting grabbed.

Touched without permission.

Without consent.

My breathing slows and then speeds up hard and fast as I start to struggle against him. “Xander, stop, please, stop, you’re drunk and—“

“—You want this; I know you do. What, you can’t kiss me, but you can joke and kiss Ambrose? Why don’t we just pass you around, create a new party game.” He leans in; he smells like pot. “Nah, I think I’ll keep the trophy for myself.”

“Hands off.” Comes Ambrose’s voice. “Before I kick your ass and tell your dad you were getting high again.”

Xander freezes.

“Pretty sure that means you’d lose your lacrosse scholarship,” Ambrose says. “The one that meant so much to dear old Mom and Dad, I forget, was it in the paper?”

Xander curses and shoves me away, but hard enough that I nearly fall.