Matter of Truth, A by Heather Lyons Read Free Book Online Page A

made a mistake I wish you nothing but happiness are you happy please
tell me you’re happy that everything I’ve put us through is worth it you
deserve so much more than a broken girl like me are you happy Jonah do you miss
me have you moved on is your life good please tell me that this has all been
worth it please please please—
    “Hello?”
    Everything around me hazes. I can’t see my surroundings. Why
is it I always break down in payphone booths?
    A dial tone fills my ear.
     
     
    “Zoe! What in the hell do you think
you’re doing?”
    Will yanks the bottle out of my hand. I swipe at it, but
he’s so fast right now, he’s blurry.
    “Mine,” I tell him. Only, I think it was his whiskey, or his
dad’s, but he did say, when I moved in, “What’s mine is yours.” Or maybe he
said, “What’s mine is mostly yours. Hands off the whiskey,” but I can’t
remember if he actually said that one or not. So technically, that’s my bottle
of whiskey and I need it back.
    “How many shots did you have?” He shakes the bottle in front
of my face. “Because it looks like you drank NEARLY A THIRD OF A BRAND NEW
BOTTLE OF WHISKEY!”
    “YES I DID.” I can give as good as I get.
    “That’s it. We need to go to the hospital. Get your damn
coat on!”
    I drop back onto the couch. “Not sick. No need.” I kick my
feet up on the coffee table, knocking over a glass. Oops. “Hospitals can’t
piece together Humpty Dumptys, Will-eeee-am!” I laugh, because I sound like
Cameron when I say it like that.
    “What?” One of his hands yanks through his hair before
tugging on his ear. His blonde is nice. Pretty. Doesn’t look trashy like my
fake blonde.
    “I like your hair,” I tell him. “It’s pretty.”
    “Fuck my hair!” He disappears and reappears, my coat
replacing the whiskey in his hand. Where’s the booze? “Get up. We’re going.”
    “Not sick,” I remind him, struggling to stand up. “Healthy
as a . . .” Huh. “What’s healthy? Apple?” I snap my fingers. Ew, they’re a
little sticky. “Hog. No! Horse. I’m a horse. I keep on running, like the Pony
Express.” I pat my chest. Jog in place. “See? Not sick. It’d be easier if I
were. Sick, I mean. If I could only get sick.” I pick up speed. “I tried to
break one of the Connections tonight, you know. Thought it could help me be
whole.” I stop jogging; it shames me I’m winded. “Didn’t work. Isn’t that
ironic? A Connection makes me whole and broken all at the same time.” I jab at
his chest. “It. Bloody. SUCKS.”
    And then I laugh, because now I sound like him. Bloody,
bloody, bloody . And then I’m sad again because of what I did.
    “What the fuck are you prattling on about? You think you’re
fine? Think again! You bloody well won’t be after they pump your stomach at the
hospital!” He grabs me and shoves my arms into the coat. “Whatever possessed
you to drink so much alcohol?”
    I stumble as he drags me out the door. “I called him.
Thought I could handle it, but I can’t.” There’s no way to swallow the burning
lump in my throat. “Thought it’d help. Just wanted to hear something,
especially today. Just—it’s hard. So hard. I’m trying.”
    He waits until he’s got us in the car and on the road before
he asks, quieter now, “Whom did you call?”
    “Doesn’t matter,” I whisper. “Was a mistake. Tried to break
the Connections—at least one, you know? Only made it worse. Hurts more now.” It
does. So. Much.
    He digs around, like he’s looking for my phone. I don’t have
my phone. It’s back home. No, wait, he’s got my purse and my phone, and he’s
got the phone out and—
    “Cell phones and driving do not mix,” I inform him
haughtily.
    Will doesn’t answer me. He does something with my phone and
then tosses it back into my purse. I grab the bag and hold it close to my
chest. I think I’m going to puke. Something burns in my throat. “Who’d you call?”
he barks. “Who fucking did