Chapter Twenty-Five – Roxy

I stare at the penguins, my body pressed against the glass the way it has been so many times before. The chill of it calms me, and my fingers guide one of the penguins around as it follows my movements.

We’re not so different, me and the penguins. Both of us are trapped in a place we don’t want to be. There’s no way of escaping, instead destined to live this way until some miracle happens, but they didn’t choose this. I did.

I chose to trap myself. I chose to let my grief rule me, acting before thinking, speaking before pausing. And now I’m a penguin.

Cold. Alone. Trapped.

Stuck in an endless circle I’m not sure I have the power the change.

“Excuse me,” a voice says behind me. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. The zoo closed fifteen minutes ago.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” I push off the glass and head toward the exit.

The roads of Portland are filled with traffic from people rushing home to their perfect families for their perfect dinners after work. The streets are laden with couples going for an early dinner, children begging their parents for candy before they have their McDonalds treat, and teens joking, waiting to hear where the next party is.

I push through all of these, my mind intent on getting back to the motel I’ve been staying in. There I can drink until Layla gets me and we go to her cousins to drink again. There I can forget all the shit of this year and just be. I can drown in a never-ending sea of vodka and not remember. No memories. No feelings. No anything.

Because forgetting is all that matters. Being numb is all that really counts when you hurt too much to feel anymore.

I walk into my tiny room, the bang of the door against the doorframe sounding too final. But then everything else in the last few months has been final, so why not that too?

I sit on the bed and unscrew the cap on the vodka bottle. I bring it to my lips, relishing the burn as it goes down.

I’ve lost everything, even the thing I should have been able to hold on to. I never should have let Kyle go. I never should have let him walk away from me on Friday night. I should have chased after him, grabbed him and told him I was talking crap, that I need him.

I should have swallowed every stupid ounce of pride in my body and told him I’m in love with him.

Now it’s too late. A fuck up of my own making. A disaster of my own doing.

I don’t even want to think about him. I can’t think about him. I don’t want to think about his lips on mine or his fingers through mine. I don’t want to hear his laugh in my ear or his voice teasing me. I don’t want… I don’t want…

I want everything. I want every single thing I threw away.

A part of me wants him even more than I want Cam. My heart cries out for them both, it’s broken for the two guys in my life that were always there, but my soul screams for Kyle. It’s my soul that’s hitting me round the head with my own stupidity, stinging me with my own words, cutting me with my own cruelness.

And it’s too late. He’s gone. I’m gone.

A knock on the door pulls me from my reverie, and I put the now half-empty bottle on the nightstand. I shove some notes in the pocket of my pants and join Layla outside.

She says nothing as we get into her car and drive to her cousin’s apartment. The differences between her and Selena are absolute. Selena wouldn’t be taking me to a party like this to get wrecked – she’d be following me, making sure I was safe. She wouldn’t be giving me my escape, she’d be fighting it. Iz too. Both of them would be holding me back and slapping me.

But they’re not here. They’re in Verity Point, doing who knows what, and I’m here, forgetting and numbing and sinking into an empty space.

Alex’s apartment is a constant party venue. Since he lives in one of the seedier, run down areas on the edge of the city, no one cares what he does. I’m almost certain he lives beneath drug dealers and above a whore.

Eyes follow me as I pour a strong drink and down it. They follow me as I have another, and another, and they follow me into the writhing mass of drunken bodies grinding together. They’re inquisitive and threatening and appreciative all at the same time.

It’s the threatening look makes me pause. I don’t know where it’s coming from but it sends a spark of fear down my back. I look around the apartment, and unable to find it, I have another drink.

I’m probably imagining things. Scaring myself.

The night wanders on. I drink again and again, losing myself to the alcohol and the music the way I have for the last few days. Yet it’s still there.

The look. The feeling of my every movement being watched. Of almost being stalked.

My eyes find the corner of the room, finally pinpointing the place it’s coming from, and stare into a pair of dark brown eyes. I don’t recognize them or the light hair or the stubble on his chin. I have no idea who he is.

But the way he’s looking at me, the way he holds my gaze so intensely I’m afraid to turn away, tells me he knows me.

I swallow and turn my back to him. I’ll give it half an hour, then I’ll leave and head back to the motel. There isn’t a single part of me that’s comfortable here, and I don’t want to stay any longer than I have to.

I’m drunk, not stupid.

I weave through the people here, slowly making my way to the door, and hope he doesn’t notice me going in the dim light of the apartment. A big hope. I open the apartment door, unnoticed by the people crowded in the hallway, and slip out onto the street.

It’s eerily quiet, and I wobble a little as I walk unsteadily. The urge to look over my shoulder overcomes me at the same time the feeling I’m being followed does. Out of fear, I don’t look. I won’t look. I can’t look.

I look.

The guy from the party is behind me. Following me. Quickly.

I snap my head back around and take a deep breath. Oh god. What do I do? Do I run? That would look obvious. But I can’t just walk like this. Fuck. Why is this out of town where there’s nowhere to hide? If I were downtown I could walk into a restaurant or something.

“Roxy.”

Shit. Keep walking. Keep walking. Pretend he’s got the wrong person.

Footsteps behind me increase in volume and speed, and before I can think, a hand clasps round my arm.

“Nice try, but I know it’s you.”

The vodka gives me false bravado, and I turn to look at the guy. “Who the hell are you?”

“You don’t remember me? I shouldn’t be surprised,” he sneers, his face morphing into anger. “You don’t remember any of the guys you fuck, do you?”

My eyes widen and I try to pull my arm from his grasp. “I… don’t know what you mean.”

“Not all guys like being used.” He leans closer to me, the beer on his breath making my nose wrinkle. “Any idea what that’s like?”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” I try again to pull my arm away as panic bubbles in my throat. I’m suddenly stone cold sober, only aware of this guy in front of me. I step back and he moves with me.

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw you here tonight. Seems like the perfect opportunity for you to know what it’s like to be used, don’t you?”

Breathe, Roxy.

“I don’t… Please let me go,” I beg, tugging my arm back for a third time. He grips my other arm and pulls me toward him. My body goes on red alert at the movement, and when he shoves me back against the wall, my throat constricts. I struggle against him but he isn’t loosening his grip, even through my begs and pleas. I open my mouth to scream and—

“Shut up,” he hisses, clamping his hand over my mouth. I bite down on his skin. Hard. He cusses at me, bringing a fist toward my face, colliding with my upper cheek. I trap my tongue between my teeth to stop myself screaming out, and this time I act instinctively, bringing my knee up to his pelvis.

He groans when I make contact with his balls and loosens his grip on me. I snatch myself from his grip and run like hell, my speed fueled purely by the adrenaline sprinting through my body. I don’t dare to look behind me for a second. My hand is against my cheek, holding the throbbing there as if it can stop it, as I run.

I don’t stop until I get back to the motel and lock myself in the room. Here, I lean against the door until I stop panting and the fear subsides. But I’m still shaking frantically, and I can’t believe what almost happened.

Is that what I’ve caused?

I cross the room to the mirror and drop my hand from my face. My cheek and eye are red, and I know they’ll bruise tomorrow, but I’ll take a black eye over what could have happened any day.

The bed creaks as I sit on it, and I look at my reflection in the mirror. Flyaway hair, bruising face, chapped lips from running… What could have happened…

Have I really given myself a reputation that bad?

I know the answer is yes.