Always There

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Songs for this chapter:
• This Town - Niall Horan

Chapter Fifty-Eight:

Bryce's POV

"Open the fuck up!"

I pound on the door again with a renewed vigour, and when still, nobody answers, I begin to kick the door as well.

"For fuck's sake!" I hiss and kick the door even harder.

When I still get no response from inside, I consider seeing if I'm capable of kicking down the heavy door, not even considering the consequences because I'm so fucking frustrated.

Just before I get far enough in my thought process to actually consider kicking this Goddamn door down, the door finally swings open.

"What the fuck, Bryce? What are you doing here?"

My bottom lip quivers.

And just like that—simply at the sound of that voice—all of my anger and resentment melts away.

"I needed someone to talk to. I don't have anybody else to talk to," I whisper.

I don't know how I'm supposed to survive without Blossom. I love her with every fibre of my being, and it feels that a piece of me is missing knowing that things will never be the same between us.

I find myself instinctually drumming my fingertips against my thighs, a habit that I thought I had perhaps broken, but apparently that isn't the case.

I whimper again.

"Come inside, kid. It's cold."

I don't listen to the request and instead I stay standing right where I am, frozen to the spot.

My dad sighs.

"Please, kid. Come in. Let's sit down and talk," my dad pleas again.

With a shuddering sigh, I lift my backpack from where it's resting at my feet, sling it over my shoulder, and then heft my suitcase into the house that I had called home for the majority of my life.

My dad sighs again and kicks the door shut behind us before he rolls my suitcase into the hallway, leaving it next to the staircase.  I let my backpack slide off of my shoulder and onto the ground, and so Dad gives me a look before he carries the backpack over to set it down next to the suitcase.

I slip off my shoes and shrug off my jacket, hanging it up on one of the hooks in the foyer hurriedly before turning back to face my dad.

I purse my lips together. I really just want to tell him what happened because I'm sure it will make me feel better to get it off my chest, but at the same time, saying the word out loud may just make it seem . . . real.

My dad turns to face me, and when he sees the distressed expression on my face, his brows furrow.

I open my mouth to speak, to explain to my dad why I'm acting so reckless—acting like the old Bryce, the Florida Bryce— but all that comes from my lips is a choked sob.

And then the tears begin to pour.

I managed to not cry on my flight here, by some miracle, considering I left my apartment for the airport the moment that I was able to calm myself enough to pack a couple bags and book a flight.

But now, all of my self-control seems to have diminished because I'm standing in the foyer of my dad's house, crying like a child.

Clearly concerned, my dad bridges the gap between us, pulling me into his arms for a tight hug.