Gemma hesitates the briefest second, her throat bobbing. I squeeze her thighs reassuringly, hoping she knows she doesn’t have to hide something like this from me.
Not when I’ve been there, too.
“I was eleven,” she admits. “Mom was getting really bad—to the point that she was doing anything to get more pills. It was late. She and Dad were downstairs arguing, so I went to sit on the steps so that I could hear them… I heard my mom say that if she didn’t have to pay for my extracurriculars, she would have the money to get the meds she wanted. She wasusing me as an excuse for the things she was doing to get drugs. I didn’t realize she meant sucking some guy’s dick in his beat-up Oldsmobile. I thought she meant she got her meds from the doctor. Prescription. I thought she meant I was the reason she was in pain. So, I got it in my head that… if she didn’t have to worry about me, she could get better.”
Shit.
“The first time, I remember thinking that I was testing myself. I didn’t want to die, but I wanted to help her. After that, it became something I chased. It was like I could cut out the fear and sadness, like the blood trailing down my leg was the guilt I felt for still being alive.”
“Did you ever stop?” I ask.
“I did okay when my mom was doing okay,” she says, wiping some of the blood trickling down my chest. “Or rather, I did better when I had her to talk to. When I got to high school, it was the people around me who made me feel like I had to hide who I wanted to be. I tried to disappear—Iwantedto disappear. Somehow the ones who wanted to hurt me still found me.”
Fuck. “I didn’t realize that,” I say, hating myself that I didn’t notice her—notice her pain. “I wish I had realized that.”
She gives me a small smile as she curves the O into my skin, careful not to go very deep. “The first day of senior year, when you walked into that Physics class, I remember that putting the blade to my skin that night didn’t have the same sensation and affect as the day before. Because suddenly, I had found something that gave me that same relief.” She pauses to meet my eyes, nostalgic euphoria in her eyes. “Seeing you smile… hearing you laugh… that was as good of a hit as that pain. To the point that, I think I got through the first half of senior year without a single cut. Christmas break nearly fucking killed me, but then we had French together second semester, and while home life was one nightmare after the other, I was able to fixate on the fantasythat one day, maybe I’d be brave enough to give you the mix CDs I made.”
“You made me a mixtape?” I ask, lighting up at the idea.
She chuckles. “I used to spend hours making you mixtapes. I crashed our family computer several times with pirated downloads. I think I even tried talking to you once on that old chat we used to have—what, that was—”
“Oh my god, the instant messaging?” I laugh. “Early internet was the Wild West. We had access to everything.”
“Yeah, no such thing as safe searches back then,” she agrees.
“You were always good with computers,” I remember.
“I was a master at MySpace,” she says, making me laugh again. “I had all the coding down. You went to my site and there was music and animations everywhere. But my Top Eight friends were all from chat rooms I’d somehow wandered into.”
“Yeah, those were probably old creeps,” I tease her.
“Probably. They all had the swoopy bangs and two-tone hair.”
“Oh, hell yeah. Thehottestemo look. I miss that hairstyle—except for the heat damage. I hated my wavy hair back then. I was up at like 5 AM just to straighten it.”
“You killed that hairstyle,” she says. “And you didn’t get bullied for it like everyone else.”
“No, I did,” I counter, remembering the guys who used to corner me in the locker rooms to tease me. “But I brushed it off. In my head, it didn’t bother me. I always snapped back at them. Eventually, it wasn’t very fun for them because I didn’t cry or respond the way they wanted me to.”
Gemma finishes the final line then and blots the blood with the towel. Her lashes lift, gazes meeting, and the amusement from our conversation falls to the wayside.
She leans down and presses her lips to the space beside it.
“IOU,” she whispers. “Because I owe you my very soul, Bonnie Miller… You’re the reason I’m still breathing. You’re my light… my darkness… You’re the steady beat in my veins… and I’ll spend every day making up for the pain I’ve caused you.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
GEMMA
BringingBonnie home started out with my stomach in whole knots that I couldn’t shake. The entire drive, I feared she would walk into that new space, realize she’d made a horrible mistake, and run.
I could not have been more wrong.
Liam drove Andi and Wren back early this morning so they could finish decorating and prepping the place while the band brainstormed for the RagnaRock gig.
It’s after dark when we eventually arrive at the new building. I park the motorcycle in the parking garage, and when Bonnie and I get off, she hesitates outside the sliding doors.
“Okay?” I ask her.
