Hadley was a do-it-yourself woman. Miss Independent to a tee. The fact that she was draped across an ex-girlfriend of mine, no matter the fact the woman was now happily married, told me everything I needed to know: Hadley was far from okay.
She twists her head back and forth in my lap continuously like she can’t find a comfortable spot to rest. The rapid movement makes it hard for me to keep the damp, cool rag pressed close against her heated face.
“No, please don’t.” She swats my hand away. Her eyes are glassy, somewhere far away.
“Hadley, it’s me. It’s your Brax,” I slowly whisper each word as her thrashing about grows. Her arms fling about wildly, and she begins kicking her legs. Hard. “Hadley, baby. It’s okay. I’ve got you. Everything’s okay.” I remove her head from my lap and evacuate the couch as she fights the air. Each whimpered “no, please don’t” from her lips is like a blade to my chest.
I can only assume something from her past has come back to haunt her with an ugly vengeance. She has a myriad of horrid experiences with her mother.
Lifting her up, taking every punch, slap, and kick, I fold her into my arms. I squeeze as tightly as I imagine a boa constrictor would before sitting back down on the couch with Hadley curled in my arms. Her arms are locked down under my own, but her legs, still free, continue to kick as she whimpers. After several minutes, Hadley stills. An exhausted breath escapes her lips and she sinks fully into my embrace.
“Braxton,” she chokes out my name through tears. When did she start crying? “I’m so sorry, Braxton. I’m so sorry. I’m—”
“Shh.” I cut her off as I run my fingers through her loose platinum waves. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” The question is burning in my throat—what the heck was that? But now is not the time to ask. I hold her, solid and steady as a rock, until she drifts off to sleep in my arms.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Hadley
Thepoundinginmyhead jolts me out of a restless sleep. Though I don’t remember making it to my room last night, I do remember Braxton holding me, telling me everything was okay. Telling me he had me.
Why now? Why did talking so briefly about college trigger the PTSD? I wipe the crust from my eyelids and attempt to sit up. The pounding in my head increases to that of a jackhammer breaking up concrete. Finally making it to an upright position with cleared vision, I notice Braxton asleep on the sofa in my room. My heart swells at the sight of him. Just knowing he spent the night in my room has my stomach rumbling.
No, wait. I never made it to dinner after the rehearsal. Heck, I neverfinishedthe rehearsal.Oh gosh,I groan inwardly. Mary Anne is going to kill me.
As if sensing I’m awake, Braxton stirs on the couch, his eyes opening and taking me in. He jumps off the couch and races to my bedside, where he picks up a glass of water sitting on the nightstand.
“Good morning, love,” he whispers, using one hand to tuck loose hair behind my ear and offering the glass of water with the other. I gladly take the drink because if I try to open my mouth to talk, a tumbleweed might roll out. After a few sips, I feel confident enough to speak.
“I’m so sorry about last night,” I say, tucking my head into my hands. The velcro from the brace on my right wrist scratches my face and then lodges into my hair. When I go to pick it out my face, it pulls.Just my luck.
Braxton reaches for the tangled mess of hair stuck to the velcro, but I shoo him away.
“I’ve got it,” I say, but he continues to reach. I slap his hand away. “I said I got it!”
He retreats his hand, but continues to hover over me like I’m that ding in a windshield that will grow if not treated gently and with loads of care. I don’t know why I’m acting like this towards him after his help last night, but it’s like I can’t stop. I was happy to see him here this morning. But now…
I’m just so angry.
At life. Athim. At my mama. At the so-called God Braxton loves to worship.
“Just go away for now, please.” I breathe carefully through each word. “I need a minute to be alone.”
“Hadley, you don’t have to—”
“Please,” I bite.Don’t make me be harsh, Braxton. Please don’t.
He catches on and slowly disappears through the double doors of my hotel room.
Somehow, more tears manage to formulate in my eyes. They travel down my face silently, unlike the racking sobs I experienced last night. The salty liquid makes its way onto my lips and into my mouth. Lying back down on the bed, I let them fall.
I don’t know how long I’ve repressed those memories of my freshman year. The party, the drinking, the guy who took everything away from me on that dirty bathroom floor. Something I had secretly hoped (and only admitted to my journal) to give to Braxton one day, should we ever find our way to being more than friends.
Tears fall until my eyes can’t possibly produce anymore. I remember it all.
Broken. Used. Discarded. No good.
Those words became the mantra repeating in my head. The only way I knew to cope was to turn to drinking. And more men. This time, ones that I chose.
