Chasing Innocence | ✓

37 | devastating assumptions

It's my shift tonight. Not at the bar, which I'd prefer. Instead, I'll be sitting in the driveway, locked inside Brax's car.

I wrap the blanket around my shoulders. The porch light highlights my frosty breath as I walk down the steps. The grass crunches beneath my shoes as I walk briskly towards the car. I pull on the passenger side, waiting for Brax to unlock it.

He looks up at me briefly, a bored expression on his face before he unlocks the door. It's just as cold inside as it is outside.

After a few seconds, I realise he's not getting out. "You can go now," I say. "I know what I'm doing."

Something begins to rattle and I look over as Brax produces a supplement bottle from his jacket. He hands it towards me.

"Is this your way of apologising?" I grunt, taking the bottle from him as I inspect the label.

"I'm not letting you take Xanax," he states, like he has a say in the matter.

I roll my eyes. "Nice try, but I've tried sleeping supplements. They don't do anything for me."

I've tried nearly anything there is since I was fifteen. He thinks that this is all new to me? Unfortunately, I'm a pro at the whole no sleep thing.

"I've been having nightmares for a long time, Brax," I state, leaning my elbow against the window sill. "I need something stronger."

"That's exactly what someone says before they form a fucking habit, Rhea."

"It's not your decision!" I snap. "I'm the only one who can decide what I want to take. You haven't even given me a chance to show you that I won't become dependent."

I turn towards him, resting my head in my hand as the cold window presses into my knuckles. He's staring right back at me unwavering. "Do whatever the fuck you want when you leave. But whilst your here—"

"Whilst I'm here, I just have to keep having nightmares?" I snap. "How is that fair?"

"Because—" he grits.

"Marco, of all people, trusts me more than—"

"If you think for a second that Marco has done this out of the goodness of his heart, then you're more of a foul than I ever thought," he scoffs.

I close my eyes briefly, breathing deeply. "Can you go inside now?" I grit.

He completely ignores me. I think he's finished and just wants to antagonise me by staying in the car, but I'm so wrong.

"How'd you get the scar?"

"You know how—"

"The one on your forearm," he says.

I furrow my brows, wondering why he's suddenly asking me that. How did the conversation change so drastically? Unless...

"Why did you try to die, Rhea?" he says quietly.

A manic laugh bubbles up my throat as I shake my head. "You're unreal. I can't— you think I was a drug addict? That's it, isn't it? You think I was a drug addict."

I feel the rage brimming until it's ready to explode. I turn towards him, forcefully yanking up the sleeve of my jacket as I show him the scar in the weak light of the truck.

He looks down at it, inspecting the long jagged line on my forearm. "You wanna know what this is? It's five stab wounds, asshole. I was almost murdered and clinically died once. So, there you go. Happy now?"

He flinches. Brax Patridge flinches from my past. He doesn't even know the whole story and his eyes already look haunted. If only he knew the rest.

I yank the sleeve down, angry tears pooling in the corners of my eyes. "There are some things that you can never unsee. That's why I need the pills."

I look away from him, unable to see his expression. "Don't you ever assume something like that about me again," I whisper. "Get out so I can do my job."

Surprisingly, he doesn't argue. He places the car keys in my lap so that I can lock myself inside, his hand briefly leaving a burn on my thigh despite the jeans I'm wearing. I hear the door handle click before he slams the door shut, leaving me in silence.

I'd told myself I'd never tell him another thing about my past, fearing that he'd use it against me. But maybe he'd shut up this time. He looked almost... shocked. Like he truly believed I was a perfect intern with perfect ambitions.

I watch him as he walks up the patio slowly. He looks back at the car for a few seconds, his hands plastered in the pockets of his jacket. When he looks away, I turn back to face the windshield.

I slam my hands against the wheel, screaming. I don't want to feel this anymore. I don't want to feel like I'm alone when I know that my friends do care about me. Most of all, I don't want my past. I want to forget it all. I want to start over.

But the one thing I can't change, is the one thing that is slowly consuming me most. I worry what will be left of me.