46

KAYDEN I’ve spent the past however many hours smoking. Whole packs. I’m almost out of cigarettes, but the nicotine rush did nothing to expel the agitation gnawing at my goddamn sanity. The cold air bites into my skin as I stand on the balcony in nothing but pajama bottoms. But it’s not cold enough, not uncomfortable enough. Nothing is enough to make me loathe what I did a few hours ago. Maybe I should ask Julian to inject me with his drug again. Not that it worked the last time. Nothing is working. I crush the cigarette in the ashtray and, like a hopeless addict, step back into the room. The night air clings to my skin as I close the door behind me. The reason for my sleeplessness—and pending life crisis—is sprawled across the bed. My bed. Gareth is on his stomach, hugging a pillow, the duvet slipped down to reveal the smooth curve of his back and the purple hickeys I left all over his skin. My marks. My touch. Mine. His blond hair spills across the pillow, messy and disheveled from ho