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Tyler walked into the party with his phone buzzing and his head hung low. He didn’t need to look up to know who was messaging him. And no matter what Jackie was saying—bright, beautiful, can’t-believe she’d-picked-him Jackie—he’d already made up his mind not to answer.
Tyler was here to get obliterated. Be obliterated. To forget all the things he was supposed to do and could never be.
So, he grabbed a drink, before it was even offered to him. He grabbed a plastic cup without caring what was inside and knocked it back. It was sweet, and it burned his throat. Hot going down. Disgusting.
On a table close by, there were other options. He saw he could select something better. A higher-quality combination that would make the liquor easier to swallow.
He didn’t want it. Didn’t deserve it. He took a gulp, and then another, and another, and his face contorted in the most satisfying way. Vodka Kool-Aid. Kool-Vodka. Vodka-Aid.
Who the hell decided to mix that?
The warmth in his gut was rising to his face. Eventually, if he kept this up, he wouldn’t care about the taste. But, while he was still with it enough to remember why he was here and not with Jackie, he glad that it was gross and glad that he hated it.
Jackie once told him a person could either be a good guy or a bad guy. Never both.
The night his father died, Tyler knew, once and for all, what sort of person he was. He was done trying to pretend he fell on the opposite side of the line. He should’ve known the stack of false identities he had been piling together would never stay standing.
The good son. The wise older brother. The considerate boyfriend.
They were all rough sketches, wispy ideas. Crazy dreams cooked up in an old house with one, unbearably heavy secret and rotted floors.