I turn so I’m standing next to him, leaning back against the concrete, too. I brush the side of my palm against his. He doesn’t move to grab my hand.
So I grab his. I’m still angry. Broken. Bereft.
And it probably wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, anyone who hadn’t lived my life or been the places I’ve been, but there was a moment—when he stood between me and the men in the garage and covered for me without hesitation. When he saidI wouldn’t do that to any of us.
A rich, handsome man who whisks you away on his white horse is a dream.
But a man who’ll lie for you? Who doesn’t care what’s wrong with you? Who protects you when you’re burning down your own house?
A man like that is as fucked up as I am. He’sreal.
“It could be different, though,” I say, sniffing back blood or tears, I’m not sure. “Maybe.”
He squeezes my hand so tightly, my finger bones grind together. A sedate black limo rounds the corner and pulls up in front of us.
“Let’s go home,” he says.
16
CORA
Adrian sitsacross from me in the back of the limo, and the closeness jangles my nerves. I’m too wrung out to panic, but I can’t take my eyes off him. What is he going to do now? Are we okay?
How could we possibly be okay? I just crashed his car.
Old, worn memories dance across my brain like the pink elephants inFantasia. Plastic mattresses. Tiny plastic cups with pills and other plastic cups with shots of apple juice. The pink soap with the smell you can’t scrub off your hands. Nubbly blankets stuck together with static, scratchy gowns with missing snaps and worn-out Velcro. A plastic plate screwed in front of the only window in a room you can’t leave until you lie well enough that people who don’t really give a shit believe you.
I twist in my seat and draw my knees to my chest, my heels digging into the edge of the leather seat.
That was all in the past. I got better. And then I played myself, and here I am, scared and powerless again, all my bullshit exposed. I didn’t get better. I got lucky for a while.
Adrian stares stonily out his window. Why isn’t he freaking out? Because he’s plotting to send me away? Hesaid he wouldn’t take the girls, but he didn’t actually say he wouldn’t send me away.
People are very good at framing their decisions as your choices.You can leave anytime. Just show us that you’re really committed to your recovery. You’re in control. Do the work, and treatment will work for you. We don’t want to keep you here forever. That’s the last thing we want.
Ignore the automatic locking doors.
Ignore the gurney with the straps and the small, cold room at the end of the hall.
I don’t want to ask Adrian what he’s planning. On the off chance he’s not thinking about where to send me, I don’t want to give him ideas.
He’s definitely working through something. He has that shark-on-the-hunt look in his eyes. A little after we cross into Connecticut, he lets out a grunt like he’s come to some conclusion and digs his phone out of his pocket. I sink into myself, shoulders climbing to my ears, vertebrae buckling.
Adrian pushes the intercom. “Pull over,” he barks.
What is he doing?
“At the next bathroom, sir?” the driver asks.
“Anywhere.”
The driver changes lanes quickly to exit, and much too quickly, he pulls into the lot of a dark gas station, either closed or abandoned. There’s nothing else nearby.
“Wait here,” he orders and hops out of the car.
Is he calling an ambulance to get me? Or Logan to send some men to take me away?
Adrian stalks a few feet to stand behind the car, tapping his phone.
