1
Elle
My head rests against the glass of the backseat window. Raindrops slide down, one meeting the other, forming a longer stream of water. Each one’s only visible when we happen to pass under a streetlight. The edge of my fingernail follows the path until the small ball of water at the end meets the bottom of the window. I glance quickly at my phone, pressing the home button to bring it to life, only the solid black screen stares back at me.
It’s dead, like how I feel on the inside.
“What time is it?” My voice is garbled and my breath poisoned by the harsh aftertaste of vodka, tequila, and whatever else I managed to get my hands on, causing my stomach to twist. Being underage hasn’t stopped me from hitting every hotspot in Los Angeles, nor has it stopped the bouncers from letting me in. They all know who I am and not a single one of them cares because they know I’m there to spend money. Not to mention, I bring an entourage with me. For the club, it’s free promotion considering every one of my friends details our outings on social media.
“Just after three.” The driver’s foreign accent makes it sound like he said tree or maybe it was free. My mind is mush, and I feel like I’m on the verge of passing out. I lift my head to glance at his GPS, only to have a wave of nausea roll through me. I press my forehead back to the cold window and close my eyes.
“How much longer?”
“We’re here.” The car comes to an abrupt stop, throwing my body forward. I look into the rearview mirror and meet the driver’s eyes, and I swear he smirks. Blindly, I ruffle through my bag and pull out a twenty. The rate on the dash reads nineteen and some change.
“Here ya go.” I toss the bill at him and exit the car. He screeches away within seconds of me closing the door. “Asshole,” I mutter into the darkness.
Each step I take toward the apartment I share with my brother Quinn is painful. Tonight’s outing is definitely one for the record books. Aside from the copious amounts of flowing alcohol, the all-night dancing has done a number on my muscles.
I don’t know how long it takes with me fumbling around, trying to get my key in the lock before it opens. Quinn stands there, with his arm holding the door. The muscles in his arm strains, likely from the grip he has on the edge of the wood. The bright light from our living room lamp highlights his scowl almost perfectly, which is different for him because usually, Quinn’s expressionless, always stoic. It’s the troubled soul of a musician, only he’s not troubled. I swear if he were, I don’t think I’d be able to live with him.
“Thanks.” I step in, brushing against him.
“We need to talk, Elle.”
“Did someone die?” This is my automatic response to a statement like this. Quinn looks at me, his eyes cold and steady. I shrug. I know it’s a bad joke, but whatever. I don’t know why he expects anything different from me.
The door slams shut. The sound reverberates through the room, causing me to jump. “All right, can we at least turn the light off?” I shield my eyes when I look at him, exaggerating the fact that the light is too bright. His expression seems to worsen as he glares at me.
“Sit down.” Quinn’s command is forceful, demanding. He points to one of the two chairs we own. He’s set them up across from one another in the middle of our living room, almost like an interrogation, or better yet an intervention.
“What’s going on?” I sit with a huff, slouching in the chair with my legs kicked out in front of me. My brother sits down and grips the armrests, keeping his back straight and his eyes set on mine. Quinn is hard to read, always has been. I’m not joking when I say he’s a tortured or troubled musician, even though he grew up in the lap of luxury. The stigma still applies to him. He’s an old soul, according to our grandma, and carries some imaginary burden that only Quinn knows how to combat. “Quinn?”
“The partying has to stop, Elle.”
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t stutter. For the past year, you’ve been out of control. Most nights, you don’t even make it home. At first, I didn’t think it was anything. Nothing out of the ordinary, since you’re in college and this is what kids our age do, but recently, your habits are all over social media and Mom and Dad are throwing around words like court-ordered rehab.”
My mouth suddenly dries, my stomach rolls and my temper is on the verge of exploding. No one, not Quinn, my parents or even my sister can understand what I’ve been going through. What Quinn couldn’t bring himself to say is that since my twin sister almost died, since she was smashed up in a car, much like our father, and had to fight for her life, I haven’t been right. Nothing in my life seems right anymore, and partying is the only way I know how to cope. The drinking allows me to stay numb, it keeps my mind in a fog, so I don’t have to deal with the endless questions about how I’m doing, how Peyton is coming along or when am I going to settle down like her. The constant comparison, whether it's about our physical health or mental well-being is taking its toll. People seem to forget we’re twins, but we’re not the same person. “You have no right.”
“I have every right. I’m tired of watching you self-destruct. I was there too, Elle. I almost lost my sister as well, but you don’t see me drowning myself night after night with people who don’t care about me, who won’t protect me if something were to go wrong.”
“No, you’re perfect, right? You don’t let anything affect you. You don’t drink, do drugs or attempt to live life! You sit in your room, and write your songs, day after day and play them night after night at whatever bar or coffee shop will let you, until you get your big break. You sing to people who don’t care about you, who won’t rescue you if something were to go wrong. Seems we’re not much different in the way we’re coping.
”
Quinn shakes his head. “I’m not coping, Elle. I’ve moved on. I’ve come to terms with the fact Peyton almost died. It took me months, but you, it’s… this has to stop. No one’s saying you can’t go out and have fun, but night after night drunken escapades have to come to an end. We are all in agreement, things have to change.”
“Who’s we?”
“Mom and Dad. Peyton and I. Ben.”
“Ben?” My eyes divert to Quinn’s, and he nods. I shake my head, wondering when my best friend decided to betray me. He’s supposed to be my ride or die, but lately, he’s been distant, standoffish. Maybe this is why. Could it be he’s had enough of my crap and is trying to put some space between us? No, I don’t believe it. If anything, he’s got his nose in the books and is preparing for our upcoming finals.
“He’s worried about you. We all are.”
“None of you knows anything about me.” My hands push into my hair as I grunt. I want to scream, to shove Quinn against the wall and yell until he finally understands what it’s like to be me, if only for five minutes. Be Elle Powell-James, sister of Peyton who is engaged to Noah Westbury, and living their happy little life on social media for everyone to see. I shouldn’t think this way when it comes to my sister because she’s my lifeline, my best friend. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her, and if she knew how I felt, she’d crumble. The last thing she would ever want to do is hurt me.
Quinn sighs and rubs his hands down the front of his legs. He’s dressed like our dad, khaki shorts with combat boots with some random band shirt, likely a group from the seventies when ‘music was real’ and made with instruments and not computers.
“Dad received a call earlier tonight. He called me looking for you because your cell was going to voicemail.”
“It’s dead.”
Quinn nods. “Anyway, I’m sure you know how your night went, but Mom and Dad received an eyeful when some journalists sent them pictures of you. I had to talk Dad into staying home, but he’s angry, Elle.”
“Well, his sister didn’t almost die, did she?”
“At some point, Peyton’s accident can no longer be your excuse. You used it to ditch out of a semester of school. You’ve used it for your grades and now this.”
I turn away when I feel unshed tears threatening to escape. My throat tightens, and my body starts to ache. The impending onslaught of tears makes it hard to speak.
“These people you’re hanging out with are making sure everyone knows everything about you. Every night they post videos of the person we love, falling down drunk, hanging on strange men, and almost passed out in random clubs, for our viewing pleasure.”
“I haven’t seen anything like that. How do I know you’re not making this up?”
“Why would I? Why would I stay up until after three a.m. to have this talk with you if I were making any of this up? I value my sleep, Elle.”
“My friends wouldn’t do this.”
“They’re not your friends. They’re leeches, using you for your connections. They’re using you for the star power, which comes with saying they’ve hung out with you. They don’t care about you, no more than you care about them. How do you think Mom feels when she sees her daughter like that? Or Dad? Or the industry? You want to be a manager, but who’s going to bring you on staff when they can Google you and see what your lifestyle is like. Like it or not, we’re expected to act a certain way, behave as respected adults in the community. I don’t think our parents are asking too much of us.”