Page 77 of Examining the Bond

“Wh-Why?”

“Because we’re going out,” she says, shooing me up the stairs. “Now, hurry up. I skipped lunch to be here and I’m hungry.”

I mutter and groan all the way up the stairs, stomping to my en suite bathroom and slamming the door behind me. But one look in the mirror is enough to wither my annoyance.

Lana wasn’t blowing things out of proportion.

I look like hell.

My hair is a greasy mess, and my skin is paler than normal. The bags under my eyes make me look sick, like I haven’t slept in a week, and…is that cheese on my chin?

Fuck.

Reluctantly, I drag myself into the shower and scrub my body, soaking beneath the scalding stream until my skin is almost numb. Unfortunately, it doesn’t numb anything on the inside, and the depression in my chest feels heavier than before.

I dress in a pair of dark jeans and a collared shirt before running a comb through my hair. Good enough.

My living room is unrecognizable when I get back downstairs. All the food containers are gone, the surfaces wiped down and clean. The throw pillows are back where they belong, and it smells like lemon cleaner instead of rotten leftovers.

Lana is sitting on the end of the couch, looking pleased with herself.

“Don’t you look a million times better.” She grins wide, giving me a once-over. “Do you feel better?”

Physically, sure. My skin no longer feels grimy. I guess that’s a plus.

But emotionally… I’m still a wreck.

“We’ll circle back,” she says when I don’t reply. She jerks her head toward the door. “Are we taking my car, or are you going to let me drive the Corvette?”

At that, I laugh, the first time I’ve laughed all week.

“You fucking wish.” I grab my car keys off the hook by the door and follow her out onto the porch. “I’ll drive.”

Thankfully, Lana lets me drive in peace without asking a million questions. Until we get to town. Then the only thing on her mind is chicken fingers.

“Drive thru is fine,” she offers, but I shake my head.

“If you wanted drive thru, we should have brought your car.” I pat a tender hand on the dashboard. “No eating in Priscilla.”

“Priscilla,”she groans, sounding personally offended. “That's what you decided to name this sexy beast?”

I laugh and whip into the parking lot of Pete's Bar & Grill. If I'm gonna be forced into public, I'm gonna do it with a drink in my hand.

Maybe two.

She doesn't ask a single question as the hostess seats us in a booth or as the waiter takes our drink order. She even peruses the menu, despite her heart being set on chicken fingers, pretending like everything is perfectly normal. But the second the waiter sits my maraschino cocktail down in front of me, Lana folds her hands beneath her chin and waits expectantly.

“Might as well down that now,” she urges. “So you can tell me what the hell is going on.”

I roll my eyes and take a deep swing of my drink, the alcohol burning a line down the back of my throat. I've never been much of a drinker, especially since I started hitting the gym every day, and it's a good thing. I probably would have gotten alcohol poisoning trying to get my mind off everything.

And as much as I don't want to acknowledge it, as much as I want to forget everything that happened and move on, Lana is here poking at the fresh flesh of my emotional wounds.

“I told you, it's nothing,” I say, my throat too tight. I take another swig of my cocktail. “Am I not allowed to be upset?”

“Upset? Sure. You're allowed to feel things, Skylar. But you were rotting in your living room for who knows how long.” Her tone bends with concern, and a divot forms between her eyebrows. “If you really don't want to talk about it, I won't press, but I'm worried about you.”

I clench and unclench my jaw as a wave of emotions rolls over me. Everything I've been trying to swallow down comes bubbling back up, but Lana's too good at this game for me to keep my walls up for very long. In fact, she's probably the only person on the planet I'd be vulnerable with.