"This story is about the boy I loved. This is about his suffering. This is about my suffering. All of it due to one thing. Affluenza."
TW : Key themes of suicide.
Sebastian Grey. Golden boy, trust fund baby, and Braylen Adams' mortal enemy. Braylen...
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I TIPTOE INTO the house and shut the door behind me as quietly as possible. I take a deep breath when I realize there's no one screaming out 'why are you here so late?!' I smirk to myself and turn away from the door before freezing into place. "Oh, crap."
"Morning," Oba says. She's smiling victoriously and the twins and Robyn are on her other side, looking relieved to see me and nervous for whatever consequence I'd have for being out all night. "Care to explain?"
I chuckle nervously, willing my extremely hungover head to stop pounding. "Um...," I start, realizing there was no good way to finish that sentence.
"Whose car was that?" Oba asks, and I swallow hard.
I sigh. It wasn't like I could just lie. "It was Sebastian, Auntie."
Every single one of them gasps. I roll my eyes and make my way to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water and a string cheese. "Sebastian? You're kidding, right? That kid has made your life a living hell for nearly a decade!" Bridget yells.
"My life was sort of a living hell anyway," I mutter. My eyes flash to Robyn. Her expression is incredulous. "Robs—"
"You lied to me," she hisses. "Guess our promise didn't mean anything to you, huh?"
I fume, cheeks flushing. "Robyn, you can't tell me who and who not to hang out with! Okay? You've been this way since we were freaking kids! You don't control me, yeah? You're not, like, my mom or something!"
The room falls silent. I gasp softly. I hadn't meant to get so upset. Cursing softly to myself, I grab my snack and run upstairs, shutting the door behind me. Pictures rattle all across my walls from the force of me shutting the door. I groan and rub my hands over my face, tossing the food and snacks over onto the bed.
My phone pings and I pull it out, sighing deeply. A small smile returns to my face as I read it.
it's Saturday. surf's up.
It was Sebastian's number. I'd had it from years ago but I wasn't sure if it was still accurate. Apparently, it was. I call him, biting my lip as it rings. It doesn't ring for long. "Braylen," he says. He sounded happy I'd called.
"Sebastian," I respond, surprised he'd answered so quickly. "Can we maybe do a rain check? I have the worst hangover and it's like World War III over here; my family knows we're hanging out."
"Nope. You said it yourself, you can barely swim! If you want to learn to surf before the water's too cold, we need to start today. And I'll have something ready for your hangover. I'm kind of the king of hangover remedies," he says. "As for your family...well, that sounds like their problem, no?"
