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can’t do this. I’m sorry, but it’s over. Happy New Year.”
    Countdowns blast from the houses around me as I sit on the curb and stare at the message. I almost wonder if someone stole his phone and is putting me on. The Donovan I know would never do this to me. Maybe my love has broken him. My tears show it certainly has broken me.

Chapter 8
    The end of January is a crappy time for a heater to go out. Even with thick PJs, a robe, and two blankets over me, I'm still an icicle. Hopefully this warm milk will help me sleep. If I had half a brain, I'd sneak into the liquor cabinet and dump some brandy in it. At least then I might not care. Then again, if I can just make it back to my room without tripping over all these blankets and rolling down the stairs like a giant strawberry only to have my brain ooze out as I crack my head open, then I shouldn't complain.
    Just as I start to enter my room, Donovan emerges from the bathroom, looking more miserable that I do. “Man, it's cold! Can’t you sleep either?” I ask.
    ”No,” he venomously stings before slithering toward his room.
    “Want something to keep you warm?” His blood-curdling glare is an unwarranted response to my innocent question. His face drops upon seeing my steaming cup. Then, as if a button was pressed, his expression snaps back to being dismal.
    “If you want warmth, maybe you should get a dog,” he growls, returning to his cave.
    “At least the house has an excuse to be cold!” I slam my door, thus probably waking the whole house. Considering Donovan's recent attitude it should be of no shock to anyone for me to be upset over something he's said. It's bad enough that I'm such a barbaric creature that would succumb to letting myself get all zigzagged by some guy, but to allow that creep to be my brother is seriously mental. What the hell is my reasoning? Especially with the way he’s been acting. And to think that men have the audacity to say women are nuts. Men are testosterone-driven whack jobs!
    Ever since Donovan bailed on New Year’s Eve, he's turned into the prick of the universe. Now, between guitar lessons, sports, and God knows what, Donovan disappears almost every night. When I do see him, it’s like playing Russian roulette as to if he'll be sweet and tender, or mean and almost vindictive. It's like he is tying to completely destroy my spirit.
    My life sucks. Seriously. Screw my life! I don't want to face this day. The last thing I want is to deal with Donovan. If he's a jerk again I'll likely strangle him—while driving even—until his face turns blue and his eyes pop out! If he's nice, he'll make me feel secure and fuzzy inside; then, I'll try to get him to talk, and he'll revert to being a dick, and I'll be back at the notion of strangling him. I'm just screwed.
    Bracing myself, I bolt downstairs expecting to see Donovan in the kitchen eating his breakfast. Instead my moonstruck mother, who often switches between trying to be a 1950's housewife and my giddy best friend, greets me with false cheer. “Good morning, darling! Oh, you don’t look well. Did you have a bad night with the heat out?”
    With a snap I reach for the coffee, intending to take my cup upstairs as quickly as possible. “Good morning, Mom. It was very bitter and sharp last night.”
    “Oh, I'm sorry, dear. Grab some breakfast, and let’s get going. We should leave soon.”
    “We? I thought Donovan was driving?” Has it really come to this?
    “Oh, no, dear. He left early. Didn’t he tell you he had an early practice? We can go, and I’ll let you drive. It’s been too long since we had mother and daughter time. Let’s make up for it this afternoon and go buy all the stuff we wanted for Christmas and didn’t get. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
    Actually, it sounds impossible. No mall sells what I wanted, and if it does it's located somewhere off of the Vegas strip or in the pits of Hell.
    At least the upside of all of this is that Mom is letting me