the queen and i II

Dwight already knew. It was evident on his face and in his scrutinizing gaze when Daryl sat back down at the bar with his phone shoved into his pocket. Dwight wasn't stupid, he knew there was only one person that Daryl would step outside to talk to on the phone. He didn't push it, though. He made his disapproval apparent and reminded Daryl that she definitely wasn't the only woman who'd ever love him, and that he could find that connection with someone else - if he tried.

Daryl shrugged it off and half-heartedly agreed just to avoid an argument, voluntarily covering their bartab and assuring Dwight that he and Beth were not getting back together. That he was not getting swallowed back up in that cycle of happiness, pain, happiness, happiness, pain, pain, pain, and more pain.

At least not anytime soon.

Dwight had already been planning on leaving soon anyway, so Daryl didn't even have to make an excuse to rush or suggest that they end the night early. It had just been the tell-tale look on his face, he supposed. The recognizable fidgeting of his hands, the way his foot anxiously tapped against the metal barstool. Dwight recognized all the signs. He'd put two and two together almost immediately.

Not that it really mattered to him. What difference did it make whether Daryl went home alone or went to see Beth for a couple of hours? It wasn't like it affected Dwight's night in any way.

Still, it didn't stop him from pausing outside the bar and placing his hand firmly on Daryl's shoulder, looking the slightly shorter man in the eyes and making an honest, heartfelt statement as flurries of snow fell around them.

"I mean it, dude - she ain't the end-all, be-all of yer life. There's plenty a fish in the sea. An' you can laugh at me all you want, but you know I'm right. When yer actually ready ta move on from her, then you will. But be prepared fer some serious fuckin' heartbreak, 'cause that's what it's gonna take at this point."

Daryl sneered and grumbled, "That's what it's gonna take - ta do what?"

Dwight raised his eyebrows but his mouth fell into a frown, like he was watching a sad movie play out in real time.

"That's what it's gonna take fer you to accept the fact that yer bad for each other. That she's got demons, an' they don't play well with yours. Man… I know it's hard ta stay away. But sometimes, you gotta rip that Band-Aid off - jus' get it over with. Before it wrecks you worse'an it did last time."

Daryl stood next to his truck and smoked another cigarette as he watched Dwight's SUV drive off into the darkness. With every exhale of nicotine and tar, he pushed out his friend's resonating words. The resentment grew larger and larger with each cloud of hot breath and smoke.

Ain't no rippin' this Band-Aid off, he told himself. She already left burn marks. We're inked in each other's skin... If anybody's gonna hurt me, I'd rather it be her than some other fish in this godforsaken sea.

Daryl was antsy and fidgeting for the entirety of the short drive to Brittany's apartment. His pulse rabbitted at the thought of seeing Beth again and he felt horribly impatient. The snow flurries stopped falling from the sky by the time he reached the apartment building, leaving small puddles and wet concrete in its wake. There were close to a dozen cars parked on the side of the street outside, and he wound up parking his truck in a narrow spot at the end of the block, forcing him to walk even farther to get to her.

His heart raced with anticipation the whole time, leaping up into his throat when he sent the "here" text and received three 'clapping hands' emojis in response mere seconds later. He imagined her opening the door and greeting him with a wide smile and a drink in her hand.

Instead, it was Brittany who answered the door. He felt a pang of disappointment when he didn't find the face he was expecting, gazing down at a girl who was just a few inches shorter than him. She was rail-thin with long, dark brown hair, narrow eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a spray tan bronze tint to her usually pale complexion. He'd always thought she looked like a younger version of one of his friend's wives - and similar to that particular wife, he'd always gotten the sense that she didn't like him very much. Especially now, as he watched her face turn from surprise to confusion to obvious disappointment.

Nevertheless, she greeted him politely, the slur in her words barely noticeable, and didn't even wait for him to ask where Beth was before turning and gesturing toward the kitchen. "I saw her in there a few minutes ago. She's already drunk."

He nodded and mumbled a "thanks," then slipped past Brittany and into her loud, crowded apartment. He shoved their interaction to the back of his mind, trying his best to ignore the undertones in her facial expressions and the way she 'warned' him. What did it matter to him if Beth was already drunk? Like he didn't know that before coming over? He told himself that Brittany was kind of a bitch and that her disapproval didn't mean shit to him.

Despite being kind of a bitch, she did have a nice apartment. It was more like a townhouse in the way it was designed, with the living room, kitchen, half-bathroom, and a small bedroom on the first floor, and then two larger bedrooms and two full bathrooms upstairs - a mirror image of the apartment next door, which sat on the other side of a thick wall. The floor design was more long than wide, leaving limited floor space in the living room and kitchen. Most of the open floor was between the two rooms, in what should've been the dining area. But this apartment was inhabited by college students, all girls in their early twenties who worked full-time or part-time on top of going to school and whatever else it was that twenty-something-year-old girls did. So they didn't exactly own a dining table, and the whole place was a bit… cluttered.

And it didn't help that the party had clearly been going on for a few hours already, leaving a lot of trash and general messes all over the place. Empty beer bottles, shot glasses, crushed cans, Swisher packages, crumpled cigarette packs, and a seemingly endless sea of plastic red cups. There were a couple of ashtrays, too, with the remnants of blunts and joints, as well as a tray on the coffee table that was covered in some very familiar white residue. The whole place was crowded with warm bodies, filled with the stench of alcohol and weed and sweat, the bass of rap and hip-hop songs thumping throughout the entire first floor.

When he finally squeezed through the numerous groups of twenty-somethings and made his way to the kitchen, he saw her. She was leaning against the edge of one of the kitchen counters, a red cup in her hand and blonde hair falling over her face. Her side was turned to him as she stared down at the phone in her hands, and he paused just long enough to take in the sight of her: a tight black shirt that hugged her hips and left a teasing few inches of midriff exposed, even tighter black jeans, and those high-heeled black boots that had been sitting on his living room floor not too long ago. She was wearing her hair down and he could see nearly every shade of blonde that was present amongst the silky waves.

He approached her and once he was a few steps away, she lifted her head and looked over, taking notice of him. Her face lit up and she grinned happily, and he immediately noticed how bloodshot her blue eyes were and how low her eyelids were sagging. Her shoulders were slumped and she was leaning heavily against the counter for support. But that didn't stop her from turning and stepping forward to wrap her arms around his neck and hug him tightly.

She was warm, really warm. And suddenly, all of the anxious restlessness that had been clattering around inside his bones came to a halt. He hugged her back even tighter, breathing in the familiar and comforting scent of her conditioner and perfume. Her body was loose and relaxed, reminding him of a rag doll and making him wonder how much she'd drank to reach this point.

She hadn't sounded quite this drunk on the phone. It was barely past eleven, how long had she been throwing them back?

"You came!" She slurred, grinning up at him as she pulled back and gripped onto his arms for balance.

"Told ya I would," he said, studying her face curiously, gently grasping her elbows. She couldn't seem to focus her eyes on his and he glanced over to see her red cup was mostly empty of whatever clear liquid it had been filled with. "Did ya get my drink ready?"

She furrowed her brow in confusion for a second then blinked and giggled. "Oh, shit - I totally forgot! What'd you want? Tequila?"

He chuckled uneasily and circled an arm around her waist, letting her lean against him for support. What had it been, maybe thirty minutes since they'd hung up the phone? How had she forgotten so quickly?

"Yeah - what'd you drink? Did ya eat tonight?" He asked, leaning in and brushing a strand of hair away from her face, attempting to get a clearer view of her current state.

She rolled her eyes with a lazy half-smile. "Yes, I had McDonald's earlier. An' I haven't had that much ta drink, I'm jus' really cross-faded." She giggled again and reached out to grab her red cup.

He watched her carefully, his smirk disappearing. "On what? Weed?"

She shook her head, draining the last of her drink before slopping the cup onto the counter. Then she drawled, "No - Mike traded me a Xanax bar fer my blunt."

Daryl bit his tongue momentarily, looking her up and down with a new realization. He knew that voicing his disapproval would only push her away, and possibly get him kicked out of the party. But seeing her like this was painful. He had the irresistible urge to protect her, to grab her by the shoulders and shake her and ask her what the fuck she thought she was doing, and how the fuck she could think that acting like this would make her situation any better.

But that was no longer his place. He had no right. And she would just pull away from him, cut him off like before. And then he would probably never see her again.

"Shouldn't be drinkin' on that," he muttered, surprised at his own ability to hold back everything he wanted to say.

She shrugged and ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back off her face as she exhaled a deep breath. "Ain't drank that much. Don't worry, I know what I'm doin'."

Merle used to say the same thing... He shoved that thought away just as quickly as it had come.

He pursed his lips and grabbed her empty red cup, clearing his throat. "I know ya do. So how 'bout my drink? Where's that tequila at?"

Once she'd directed him toward the booze and he'd poured a few generous shots into the plastic red cup, he nonchalantly kept it clutched in his hand and close to him. She didn't seem to notice her lack of a drink and he sipped his slowly, loosening his arm around her as she stood up straighter and gradually pulled away from him to fully regain her balance. She moved slowly, like she was fighting lethargy.

"You got a cigarette?" She slurred, gazing up at him expectantly.

He nodded, glancing across the room toward the back door. "Yeah. Wanna go outside?"

"Yeah. I need some fresh air."

"Where's yer coat?"

"Don't need one - it's hot 'sfuck in here." She grabbed his hand and interlaced her fingers with his. Her palms were clammy. "C'mon."

The back porch was a lot quieter once they closed the door and sat down on the cold wooden steps, beneath an awning that had kept the porch dry from the recent rain and snow. The bass of the music inside still thumped steadily throughout the floor, but all the loud voices were muffled. They both took deep breaths of fresh air, sitting close together as their exhalations formed small clouds in front of them.

Daryl pulled out a cigarette and handed it over to Beth, lighting the end while she held it carefully between her lips. Then he pulled out and lit his own, scooting a little closer against her side. He'd left his coat in the truck, leaving him with only a long-sleeved flannel and his black vest, but the cold didn't seem to sting like it had before. And she didn't seem to notice it at all, pushing her hair off the back of her neck and stretching out her legs on the stairs, face glowing with perspiration.

"You gotta work tomorra?" He asked, eyes trained on her as he slowly inhaled a deep breath of nicotine.

She nodded and lazily turned her head to meet his gaze, sighing. "Yeah, an' then I gotta move on Monday."

"Already?" He asked.

"Mmhmm," she hummed, taking a leisurely drag of her cigarette and holding the smoke in her lungs. "Found a second job and a place I can afford." She exhaled a white cloud of smoke and hot air. "Daddy took pity on me an' gave me Maggie's old car, so I guess I won't be walkin' everywhere."

"Pity or not, that's a good thing," he muttered. "Shouldn't be walkin' everywhere by yerself anyway. Where's yer place at?"

She took a long hit off her cigarette and gazed skyward for a moment, as though she were struggling to do the math in her head. She took longer than usual to answer, but he watched her expectantly the whole time. Then she slurred, "I'ono - like thirty or forty minutes east a yer place. Think it's a li'l closer to yer shop than anythin' else. You still work at that one, don't you?"

She looked over at him again and he nodded. "Yeah. That ain't a very good neighborhood. Y'should get a big dog er a gun - somethin'."

She rolled her eyes and he felt a twinge of annoyance, so he quickly threw back a swig of tequila before hitting his cigarette again. She smirked with amusement, a long ash forming on her cigarette as it rested forgotten between her fingers. "I'll be fine, Mr. Dixon. I can take care a myself."

"Didn't say ya couldn't," he mumbled. He paused and took a drag, exhaling quickly. "You need help movin'?"

She shrugged her loose shoulders and stared down thoughtfully at the cherry of her cigarette. "Maybe… if yer not workin'."

"I can leave a couple hours early. Mondays are always slow," he offered. "Jus' lemme know."

If you even remember this conversation come Monday, he thought.

She hummed in acknowledgement and finished her smoke, tossing the butt out into the darkness of the backyard. As he tossed his own in the same direction, she leaned back against the stair railings and lowered her eyelids.

"Don't want you thinkin' I'm using you… again. Or anybody else," she said quietly, eyes still closed.

He swallowed hard and clutched the cup in his hand a little tighter. He was realizing he'd never escape all the hurtful words he'd hurled around so many months ago. And they'd never fade away from her permanently scarred mind. She couldn't forget them, so she wasn't going to let him forget either.

That was fair.

"I know you ain't ever used me. An' it don't matter what anybody else thinks. Ain't none a their business," he said plainly.

A small, bitter, pent-up part of him wanted to throw the hurt right back in her face. He wanted to remind her that he was the one who'd been taking advantage because he was the 'old man who couldn't grow up,' as she'd so eloquently put it once upon a time. And at the end of the day, more people thought of him as the one using her rather than the other way around. 'Taking advantage,' they'd called it. Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.

But he pushed all that shit back to where it came from and locked it up tight. He took a long swig of tequila and let the fire course through him as it burnt its way down his throat.

And when he looked over at her again, she'd opened her bloodshot eyes and was gazing at him almost wistfully, a tired smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. His stomach flip-flopped.

The resentment, the hurt, the poison and razorblades that had resided on the tip of her tongue for the last year… it was all gone. For now. He could see it in her face, read it in her glazed eyes and hear it in her lazily slurred words: she'd succeeded, at least for tonight, in numbing her constant aching. She was inching closer to the edge of the faultline within her - the one that opened up into a bottomless, hollow pit of not now, maybe not ever. A pit that she was continuously filling with booze and drugs and sex and, as of late, pills.

Opening and swallowing it all up and closing again, over and over and over.

"Lemme have a sip," she said, reaching out for the cup.

He reluctantly handed it over, surprised by her request, and watched as she threw back a hearty swallow. She didn't even wince, and he could've swore he could see that hollow pit opening up inside her with the tipping of the cup.

But he could only see it because it matched his own.

He couldn't leave her alone. Not when she was like this. No matter what Dwight might try to tell him, no matter how much fucking sense that asshole actually made sometimes.

"Brittany gonna care if I crash with you tonight?" Daryl asked quietly. "'Least till I can drive home."

Beth chuckled like he'd told a joke and shook her head, eyelids hanging heavy over bloodshot blue pools. "Well I didn't invite you over jus' fer a couple hours… I missed you. I miss sleepin' next to you." The words poured from her lips, reminiscent and uninhibited.

A knot formed in his throat and he struggled to swallow past it. His empty fingers fiddled with a loose thread on the seam of his jeans. He wasn't sure he was nearly drunk enough to match her softness tonight.

"Missed you, too… You want me ta take ya to work tomorrow?"

She nodded slowly and gazed at him like she was studying him, for some reason. He wasn't sure what she was looking for, but he was confident she wouldn't find what she wanted.

He was still a bit put off by how lethargic she was acting, moving, and speaking. Briefly, he wondered how the night would've ended for her if she hadn't called him. Was it the Xanax making her so nostalgic and easy-going? The booze? Or something else?

Did she really miss sleeping next to him? Or did she only miss it when she was high and drunk and feeling particularly friendly? Particularly lonely? Was she just resorting to using him as another intoxicant, another drug to fill that hollow pit?

Did it really matter anymore?

Back inside the party, one of Beth's friends wandered over to where Beth and Daryl were sitting together on the couch in the living room, squeezed in beside two other people that he didn't recognize. The red-haired girl swooped in, phone in hand, and took a group selfie with them. Daryl wasn't sure how to react so he gave a weak half-smile toward the phone's lens while Beth grinned and threw up double peace signs, eyelids hanging low over blue eyes. Then he waited for the girl to stop laughing with Beth about something-or-other and walk away again. He briefly wondered whose Snapchat story or Instagram feed that photo might end up on.

He nursed his cup of tequila while he sat on the couch with his arm thrown around Beth's shoulders, and she chatted happily and drunkenly with the people around them. A blunt was being passed around at one point but he turned it down, watching from the corner of his eye as she took two big hits off of it. Her eyes couldn't have become more bloodshot anyway. She was already melting into the cushions and against his side.

He took a long swig of his drink and pulled her a little closer.

Then the music was being cranked up, drowning out all the conversations and laughter that filled the apartment. He watched with narrowed eyes as a small group of six or seven girls - only two of which he actually recognized as Beth's friends, Brittany and Lauren - formed a circle in the open floor space between the living room and kitchen. And as the bass thumped through the walls and grated on Daryl's nerves, a rapper's voice poured out of the stereo speakers and the girls began to drunkenly dance together, some of them with cups in hand, all of them way too drunk and giggly to be trying to shake their asses.

"I love bad bitches,
That's my fuckin' problem!
And yeah, I like to fuck,
I got a fuckin' problem!"

But Beth was laughing and nodding her head along to the beat, and he could see her mouthing the lyrics lazily. Her body squirmed against him and he could feel her beginning to sit up and grow restless.

As much as I love you, I'm not gettin' up and dancing, he thought, clutching the cup in his hand tightly.

To his relief, she remained beside him for the entirety of the song, quietly rapping along to the lyrics and laughing loudly at her friends' drunken antics. There were at least two or three people with their phones out, grinning and shakily recording the scene. He took a long swig of his drink and realized it was the last of his cup's contents.

As the song faded out, he leaned in close and tried to speak during the break in music, "'M gonna get another drink." She looked over at him and nodded in understanding, but as he leaned up and began to stand from the couch, a familiar tune hit his ears. And then it was filling the apartment. And his head.

Beth recognized it, too, because she immediately reached up and grabbed his arm, pulling him back toward her. He glanced over to see her standing up from the couch with him, using him as her point of balance, a grin on her face and a new brightness in her eyes. Then he realized that he wasn't going anywhere because she was now gripping his arm intently and urging him away from the couch with her, toward the dancing group of girls.

"You used to call me on my cell phone,
Late night when you nee-eed my love…"

He hadn't ingested nearly enough tequila to block out the wave of nostalgia that washed over him, the sudden slew of memories and almost-forgotten emotions that flashed through his head in that moment.

The bed of his old pick-up truck, the bright Atlanta skyline, her flawless thighs beneath his fingertips. There was a soundtrack to his timeline of pain, and this song was one of the bloodiest tracks on that playlist.

The sharp edges of a long-buried hatchet began to slice at the inside of his skin, threatening to tear him apart where he stood. Not now, he told himself. Maybe not ever.

She released him from her grasp and he casually drifted back as she wandered forward and clutched the hands of her good friends instead, dancing shamelessly. Something he, frankly, wanted no part of.

He watched for a second, barely allowing himself to nod his head to the beat. Even seeing her do the stupid little dance that went with the song was causing a surge of needles to rush down his spine and fill his chest. It felt like replacing a bad memory with a slightly shittier one.

The rusty remnants of pain were slowly ebbing outward, but his cup was still empty. He took the opportunity to slip around the group and into the kitchen, away from the gathered crowds of people and numerous Snapchat stories-in-progress. Away from the steady, never ending beat that threatened to drag him down Memory Lane. Back to the booze that awaited him on the counter.

There was a text from Dwight that Daryl hadn't noticed arrived until he was standing in the kitchen, idly checking his phone.

Can't cover for you if you call in again on Monday. Joe's already irritated about yesterday.

He turned his phone off and shoved it into the inside pocket of his vest. Asshole. Then he swallowed down a large swig of tequila. The sting surged through him and made him shiver. He kept his eyes trained on Beth, watching her drunkenly dance and laugh and take ridiculous selfies with her equally-drunk "besties" from across the room.

Some song came on that he didn't recognize, something about a girl named 'Tatiana,' and Daryl was thinking about how he wished these new rappers would speak clearly so he could at least understand what the hell all these girls were giggling and bopping around to. But then he recognized the look on Beth's face as she paused her dancing and began to wander away from her friends, her eyes searching through the crowd for him. He quickly slipped past a few people and back into the living room, reaching her side with his plastic red cup still clutched in his hand.

"There you are!" She grinned, reaching out and grabbing his free hand. Before he could suggest that maybe they step outside again, or even go find a quieter room, she was jerking her head toward the short hallway that led to the half-bathroom. "I gotta pee."

He nodded and wordlessly followed her as she pulled him along with her down the hallway. Another old habit, following her wherever she went like some kind of personal bodyguard. In actuality, considering her current state, he would've followed her wherever she wandered off to no matter what. He certainly hadn't come over here to hang out with any of these other people. He didn't even want to talk to any of them, honestly.

While he stood outside the bathroom door and sipped his drink, Dwight's words resurfaced in his head. And he began wondering to himself if he really was just a dog on a leash. Always at her beck and call. Always salivating at the mere prospect of spending time with her. Always ready to pick her up off the ground and try to put the pieces back together. Always consumed with the thought of her, the desire to be at her side, the need to protect her.

Fuck 'em all, he decided. She needs me.

And yeah, he needed her, too. That wasn't even possible to deny.

When she finally emerged from the bathroom and turned to find him waiting for her, she smiled. She looked exhausted, nearly on the verge of passing out. She also looked high as a fucking kite. She was leaning heavily against the doorframe, eyelids drooping while she struggled to focus her gaze on him.

"Brittany said I could sleep in the li'l bedroom," she slurred, blinking long and slow.

He raised his eyebrows expectantly. "You ready fer bed?"

She defiantly pushed away from the doorframe and stood up straight, shaking her head. "No - why, are you?"

He shrugged and watched her carefully, her legs a little too wobbly for his liking. "I'ono, but ya look like yer about ta pass out any second."

She scoffed and reached out to swipe the plastic cup from his hand. He let her take it and tried not to visibly grimace as she threw back a swig of tequila. He quickly grabbed it back from her and stepped closer, letting her reflexively reach out to grab his arm and lean against him. The music was still bumping loudly from behind him, drunk twenty-somethings laughing and hollering at each other.

"Think you've had enough fer tonight, don't you? Yer already gonna have one helluva hangover fer work," he said, leaning down so she could hear him clearly.

She nodded and he felt relieved. He'd been partially bracing for her disagreement or frustration, but apparently, she was well past that point. There wasn't an ounce of confrontation left within her tonight.

As he gazed down at her face, he recognized the fond reminiscence returning to her features, the vulnerability plastering itself like a mask over the pain and anger and suffering. Or maybe it was pushing its way up to the surface from beneath the several layers of thick skin she usually kept over it. He couldn't tell for sure.

But she was staring up at him with that softness that never failed to pull him down into a place of comfort and solace. The raw and defenseless Beth he'd come to know over the last few years was looking at him - looking through him. Appearing sporadically, briefly, yanking him in and refusing to let him get too far away. Pulling him back whenever he began to drift from her.

Her fingers wrapped loosely around his forearm and her other hand pressed flat against his chest, leaning into him. Her voice drawled from her chapped lips, penetrating his skin like a tiny switchblade.

"Yeah, but at least when I'm hungover, I'm not thinkin' about all the other pain."

He could feel the stutter in her breath, hot against his chin as she huffed out a humorless laugh and mumbled, "That shit hurts a helluva lot worse."

He had absolutely no desire to do anything physical with her when she was so much more intoxicated than him. He was more than satisfied just to know that he could keep an eye on her through the night, and getting to wake up next to her was an added bonus. He wasn't even sure that he felt comfortable letting her kiss him in the narrow hallway, letting her push her body so tightly against his and breathe so heavily into his mouth.

But he let himself get a little… carried away. What was left of his tequila sat abandoned in its plastic red cup on the floor next to the bathroom, seeing as he needed both hands to properly grip her waist and feel the bare skin of her warm back against his palms. The liquor was swimming through his head, making his blood race in his veins.

No, he'd had no intention of heatedly making out with her when she was in this state.

But then she was whispering against his mouth, mumbling into the skin of his neck, "I miss you, baby… I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I wish I could go back an' fix it all... I'd give up everything fer you."

He shushed her with his lips, but something scalding was rising up within him and he couldn't silence it.

He pressed his forehead against hers and lingered over her mouth, breathing out hoarsely, "'M sorry, too. I miss you every goddamn day, I miss bein' with you - I love you. I love you, Beth."

She kissed him hungrily and he gave in, matching her need with an intensity of his own.

And when they finally broke apart and wandered into the little bedroom on the first floor, away from the noise of the party and the guests who didn't leave until nearly daybreak, Beth stripped down to nothing but her underwear - nearly tumbling over head-first in the process - and flopped down on the bed without hesitation. Daryl shook his head and locked the door behind him, shutting off the light and silently thanking whatever random urge had spurred her to invite him over, forcing away unpleasant thoughts about how she could've passed out if he hadn't been here.

He undressed, leaving on his longjohns and tank top, and lay down beside her. She was snoring within two minutes of her head hitting the pillow, and he had to pull the covers out from beneath her so he could cover her nearly-nude form.

He threw an arm over her and drifted off to a light, uneasy sleep. He kept waking up every hour or so, lifting his head and watching carefully to check that she was still breathing. And every time, just before falling back to sleep, he'd silently wonder if she would even remember those soul-sucking words she'd whispered against his lips.

Maybe he'd just been talking to a ghost.

to be continued...

A/N: Songs mentioned were "Fuckin' Problems" by A$AP Rocky, and once again, "Hotline Bling" by Drake.