He leans back in the chair, his steel-gray eyes boring into mine. “Such a pain in the ass.”
I fidget with the straw of my milkshake, chewing on my bottom lip. Time to say what I’ve been wanting for the past two months. My throat tightens, and I take a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”
“The guys rattled you. I get it. No big deal.”
I shake my head. "No, not that.” My voice cracks, and I look down at the table, unable to meet his gaze. “Forwhat happened five years ago. For pushing you down the stairs. For . . . everything.”
He doesn’t respond, and when I finally get the courage to look up, his expression is neutral. But he hasn’t looked away, hasn’t made a move to get up.
So, I continue for reasons I don’t fucking understand. "My father used to lock me in a chest freezer in the basement. Sometimes for hours. In the dark. In the cold. I'd scream until my throat was raw, scratch at the sides until my nails broke off." I swallow hard, fighting back tears. "I was six the first time. It got worse as I got older because the space got smaller, and I couldn't . . . I couldn't breathe . . . So, when you locked me in that closet, I . . . I completely lost it. Didn't even know what I was doing.”
A muscle twitches near his eye, but otherwise, his face remains impassive. The lack of reaction makes me feel exposed, vulnerable.
My eyes drift to his left arm, to the intricate tattoos covering the scars I know lie beneath. I reach across the table, my fingers tracing the inked patterns. "I didn’t mean to hurt you, Zach. I swear I didn’t mean to—”
"You almost took it all away." His voice is cold, mechanical. "The only thing I'm good at."
Tears spill down my cheeks. He doesn’t forgive me. He can’t. And I understand. Because there’s the other part that’s haunted me since that night.
The what ifs.
What if I hadn't screamed? Our parents had been so focused on me. What if they never turned around?
My stomach roils, bile creeping up my throat. I jump up from the table, my chair scraping against the floor. "I can't . . . I have to . . ."
I bolt from the food court, my heart pounding in my ears, my vision swimming. The last thought that echoes in my mind as I push through the doors and into the cold is one I can’t escape, no matter how hard I try.
What if Zach had actually died?
Chapter 19
Zach
Merci’s retreating figure is a blur as I follow him. I had no idea what he’d gone through growing up. But it’s not just his past that’s got my insides all chaotic. It’s how he mentioned falling for me.
Sure, he accused me of using it as another way to hurt him. But am I someone he wants to be with?
Me?
I scan the area frantically, a heavy pressure building in my chest from something I can’t name. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s desperation. I spot him near a cluster of shrubs at the edge of the sidewalk, bent over and retching, his hands braced on his knees. The pink remnants of his milkshake splatter onto the ground, steam rising in the frigid air.
His body trembles as another wave of vomiting hits. My heart beats wildly as I rush over and crouch beside him, my hand hovering near his back, unsure whether to touch him. "What’s wrong?"
Merci wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his breathing ragged. "I hate myself. Hate that I am the way that I am. Hate I almost killed you." His voice cracks, tears streaming down his face. "And what I hate most is that I became a monster just like my father the day I pushed you down the stairs."
The sight of him falling apart, seeing the raw pain etched across his features, triggers something primal and protective in me that wants to take away his pain. “Merci, look at me.”
His watery lavender eyes meet mine, and the agony in them is a knife to the gut. "Maybe he locked me in the freezer because he saw blackness in me, knew I was evil."
The world tilts, my vision tunneling, and I snap. "You are anything but evil, Little Scorpion.” The words come out in a deep, dominant growl that surprises me. “If you were, you wouldn’t give two shits about what you did."
He shakes his head, lips trembling as he wraps his arms around himself. "I get why you hate me."
Reaching out, I lift his chin up, forcing him to meet my gaze. "I don't hate you." The pressure in my chest increases. "But there's more to everything than just my arm."
His brows furrow. "W-what do you mean?"
"I have brain damage. Insular cortex damage, to be precise." The words feel heavy on my tongue, like leadweights I've been carrying for too long. "It happened when I was little. Makes it hard for me to process emotions, to read people."
