Complicity [h.s]

47

PART 4 OF 4-PART UPDATE

Aven Brooks

It's a mistake—I know it's a mistake. I've already risked so much before; to do it again is just asking for hell. I have twelve minutes—twelve godly minutes—but every muscle in my body is making me do this, even if my brain is flashing red with warning.

I have to tell him the truth. It doesn't excuse what I did. But I will never be able to move on after how I chose to end it. The pain I caused him that night will follow me forever, and I know I'll only live in regret that I wasn't honest about what drove me to do it. I didn't think I felt these things anymore, and it scares me. I'm not supposed to feel regret and sadness like this. I knew parting with Harry wasn't going to be easy, but this has been such a disaster of emotions that I can't control. I have to do something.

Walking down the steps of the bar, I didn't expect it to be so busy at this time of night, but I found myself having to weave through the crowds. The second I reach the bar, my eyes met Dez's. She does a double-take at my presence but is quick to stare with frustration.

"Don't make me call security."

I guess word travels in this little group of best friends.

"Where's Harry?" I cut to the chase.

"We're all wondering the same thing."

"What do you mean?"

"He was here a half hour ago. Now he's gone, and one of my bottles is missing."

"I thought he wasn't drinking?"

"We thought so, too." She shakes her head.

I breathe.

"I'm assuming he ducked out the side exit." She adds.

Walking away, she calls out again.

"There's no point searching. Everyone is already looking for him."

"They won't check the right places..." I disappear into the hallway.

Through the alleyway exit, I leave up through the concrete stairs. Out on the street, I look back and forth until catching a fire escape above the dumpster. My instincts take me up the rusty steps until I'm up on the roof of the building.

Far in the distance, I see Harry casually sitting on the ledge, his back to the drop. He doesn't react visually to my entrance; he's a blank slate of emotion. I feel affliction seeing him again after our last conversation.

"Partying alone?" I speak.

He stares at me from across the roof, holding a half-empty bottle of whisky between his thighs. Eyes bloodshot, cheeks hollow, skin pale; he sits alone with a little bit of dried blood near his mouth. He looks a lot more haunting since the last time we saw eachother. The wind gently blows his hair in different directions. He's drunk—It feels like an image I saw a lifetime ago. From what he's told me, he was a few weeks sober when we met again.

"Seems no one else wants to." He shrugs like this is casual.

I walk closer with my hands in my coat, feeling the brisk night air. Keeping a good distance in front of him, I see how glazed his eyes are. The sleeves of his crewneck are tucked over his knuckles like their cold. When I catch his collarbones peaking within the neckline, I realize he isn't wearing a shirt beneath this loose fabric; it's unlike him.

"No one wants to enable you."

He chuckles in disbelief. "I'm just loosening up, right? Is that not allowed?"