ROUGH DRAFT of Loser || WlW

Thirty-Three

 "Everyone knows." I suck in a shaky breath. "Everyone knows everything, Brittany. Everyone." I'm gasping but my lungs won't fill up. "She wrote everything." My throat is tight. My head is spinning.

"Jordan." Brittany holds my shoulders, her deep blue eyes as serious as her tone. "Look at me."

I look at her, then back at the ground. "I don't feel good." I must look as awful as I feel because Brittany's eyes go wide. The dark rims around my vision feel comforting as my knees buckle.

"Well, can't you take it down?" Brittany's voice is distorted; like she's far away. "Then why did you call?" She pauses. "No, you can't talk to her." Another pause. "Because you're a bitch, that's why." There's a click and Brittany is kneeling over me again.

I blink a few times and rub my head. "What happened?" The cold grass tickles the back of my neck.

"You fainted." She grabs my hand and pulls me into a sitting position. "Come on, let's get you some sugar. And maybe some alcohol." She helps me to my feet and steadies me to the car.

The drive is long and quiet. Brittany doesn't turn the music up and I can't tell if it's better or worse.

"What did she say?" I lean my head up against the window.

Brittany looks at me and back at the road. Her driving is surprisingly average tonight as she makes complete stops and lets people merge in front of her. "She said she didn't write the article. She works for the paper and her boss told her to get the scoop so she did." She sighs. "But she felt bad so she decided not to write the story and her boss wrote it instead and put her name on it."

I don't say anything.

"Sounds like bullshit to me," Brittany says as she pulls into her driveway.

I'm dazed as we make our way through the garage and up to Brittany's room. I'm sitting on a leather couch as she pulls a handle of whiskey from the mini-fridge and pours some in a glass with ice and coke and hands it to me.

"She never cared about me."

"Maybe she did."

I stare at Brittany, but I can't bring myself to say anything.

She pours herself a glass of whiskey and clinks it against mine. "Come on. Take the edge off," she orders and guides the glass to my lips as she takes a swig of hers.

I gulp the bubbly liquid down and let it burn my throat.

"What did she write that was so bad?" Brittany sits next to me. "It probably wasn't even that bad."

"Well, she started with the story about how my mom tried to kill me when I was eight," I explain.

"Your mom tried to kill you?" Brittany sits forward, her eyes wide.

I laugh. The alcohol must be working because her reaction is hilarious instead of humiliating. Or maybe I've finally lost my mind. "She talked about my brother's drug addiction."

Brittany waves it off. "Everyone knew about that."

"But then there's this." I grab Brittany's phone from her purse and scroll until the last paragraph of the article. "It's obvious enough that Jordan Taylor had a role to play in the murder of Claire Davis, but the real issue lies somewhere deeper; in a need to evaluate our mental health system because a psychopath should have never slipped through the cracks for so long." I stop when my phone rings from Brittany's purse.

Brittany digs through the bag and glances at me before she flips the phone open. "Hi, Mr. Taylor," she says as she presses the phone to her ear. "Yes. Yeah, we saw. Is it okay if Jordan spends the night here? Yes, absolutely. Okay, no problem." She flips the phone closed.

Brittany refills my glass and I gulp it back.

"You know," I chuckle, "I've kept it a secret for so long. I've been so careful." I rub my head. "I never cried in public. I never overreacted when people were shoving me in lockers or trash cans." I wipe a tear from my cheek. "I never gave anyone a reason to suspect I might be crazy like my mother and the second I let someone in..." I shake my head.

Brittany blows a long breath out through her teeth and leans back on the couch. "That's why I stick to hookups."

I face her. "Really?" The alcohol is making my words slow. "Is that true?"

"Kind of." She shrugs and faces me. "It's easier than getting all tangled in emotions just to have someone screw you." She shakes her head. "But I made a name for myself by sleeping with older guys and once it got out, it was hard to get anyone to commit to a serious relationship with me."

Brittany pours us both another glass. We clink cups but I don't finish mine this time. "Was it because of Claire?" I take another sip. "Like what you were talking about the other night? She was always in the spotlight or whatever so you felt acceptance from sex?"

Brittany snorts. "I'm not that profound." She smiles and shakes her head. "No, it was for Claire, kind of." She slides her finger around the rim of the glass. "Everyone's got that creepy uncle, you know?" She lets out a single laugh. "Ours was especially interested in Claire. He settled for me." She forces a sad smile.

"Settled for you?"

She nods and rolls her eyes. "I asked him to leave her alone."

My mind flashes back to her uncle Kenny; the way he looked at her that night, and then back to the day at The Mariana with Brittany's friends. Why would Brittany try to kill the sister she was trying so hard to protect her?

"You know, I've actually never had consensual sex. I've never even asked someone to kiss me. Most guys just assume I'm free game." She opens her mouth to say something and closes it again. "I was thinking about you and Grace. You should be happy she didn't steal your first kiss and leave you wondering how much better it could have been if it was with someone who cared about you. She did you a favor."

I nod. My head feels slow. "You're probably right." We're both quiet for a moment before I say, "You should start over. Forget about everyone else." I wave at the air like I'm getting rid of all the people who've hurt her. "It's not real if you don't want it anyway."

She laughs. Her eyes look brighter than usual.

"I'm serious! Go have your first kiss with someone you love. Stop letting people take advantage of you." I'm drunk and rambling but I can't stop there. "You're smart and beautiful and worth so much more than you think."

Her laugh disappears and for a moment I wonder if I've gone too far.

"Did I make you sad?" I ask.

She shakes her head; her eyes flick to my lips and stay there. "Come here." She pats her thighs. "You're drunk."

I finish the last of my whiskey and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "I'm not drunk."

She raises an eyebrow.

"I'm a little drunk," I admit. "But I mean what I said."

"Okay." She's smiling as I lie down and rest my head in her lap. She grabs the remote from her side table and flips the TV on. I'm asleep before she can decide what to watch.

She's playing with my hair when I wake up, softly scratching my head like my mom used to when I was a kid. There's a bag of frozen peas resting on my knuckles. A dull ache runs up my hand as I wiggle my fingers;

"And lastly," The news is playing, the same reporter who interviewed Trevor is speaking. I rack my brain for her name. Casey? Lacey? "We'll dive into the in-depth article written by someone very close to Claire Davis' death which has made comparisons between the prime suspect in her murder case and this woman." The still image of my mother displays next to my yearbook photo. "Stay tuned."

Brittany flips the TV off.

The silence is thick.

"You're awake, huh?" she guesses.

For the first time in years, I can't hold the flood of emotion back as tears spill down my cheeks. I gulp in a shaky breath and mutter the only word racing through my head.

"Fuck."