Page 11 of Quiet Obsession
And I haven’t stopped thinking about her since. I haven’t stoppedaskingabout her, either.
How’s Millie doing, Hyde?
Is Millie talking more?
Have you called Millie today?
It’s a long weekend, you should go see Millie.
Millie, Millie,Millie.
Grinding my teeth, I focus on my best friend. “What did I say that made you come here?”
“A lot of incoherent bullshit.”
“I was celebrating.” I pick up a fork, my hand shaking. “I got it out of my system and now I’m fine.”
“Fine my ass.Eat, or I’ll force-feed you.”
I almost smile because he’s not bluffing. Hyde’s very particular about food. Skip a meal and he’s there with a lecture. Maybe that’s what I said. That I wasn’t eating.
Not for the lack of food.
When my father was pronounced dead some thirty-six hours ago, most of our neighbors had been drawn out by the ambulance sirens to stand on their front porches, watching, whispering, covering their mouths while sending me pitying looks as the paramedics wheeled out the body.
The next morning, Miriam, my next-door neighbor, knocked on my door, armed with casserole à la food poisoning. I tried it at a neighborhood BBQ five years ago and wouldn’t put myself through that misery again, even if I were starving.
It’s selfish, but as I stuff my mouth with eggs and my tongue wakes up under the salty, buttery taste, I’m glad Hyde’s here.
Still... “You shouldn’t have left Millie alone.”
“She’s not alone. Dash and Noah are looking out for her.”
That doesn’t change shit. Millie needs her older brother. He’s the only one she’ll speak to without a filter.
Hyde chases a mouthful of avocado down with a sip of water, peering up at me. “She sent me here.”
I pause mid-bite, something ugly twisting in my chest. She shouldn’t put me above her comfort. I don’t fucking deserve that after already failing her once.
Hyde thinks I’m worth saving but he’s wrong.
I break things.
I breakpeopleand Millie’s the perfect example.
I haven’t even technically met her and she’s already paying for my existence. For my instability, bad temper, and the thing I pretend isn’t a fucking addiction.
“What the hell are you doing, Hyde?” I drop the fork, the clank jarring the quiet kitchen. “Go back. She fuckingneedsyou there. I’ll handle the funeral.”
“You’re not handling shit, Elias!” He bangs his fist on the table, then exhales down his nose, dousing his rising temper.
Oh, he’s pissed, alright.
He only uses my first name when he’s angry.
“You were comatose when I got here,” he seethes. “The house was unlocked and smelled like a goddamn distillery. It looked more like you were drowning in guilt than celebrating.”
I drop my eyes back to my plate. Holding Hyde’s stare isn’t easy. He has the kind of conviction, the kind of moral compass, that makes you hate yourself for not having any.
