“Look at you!” I beam at him. It may not seem like much, but I’m going to celebrate any and ever small step forward with Riley.
Creed grabs Riley’s hand once he carefully sets the plates on the outdoor table.
“These were approved by Wilder, along with a long list of other adaptive equipment that we can use until Ri gets his mobility and grip back.”
“Feels like they help, too,” Riley says, gesturing to the plates that are each still in one piece.
“Hey, whatever makes life easier for you is a win for me,” I tell him as I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his t-shirt, inhaling his clean scent.
We all take a seat around the table and promptly dig into the food. Laughter bursts around the table as Creed pouts because Riley refuses to use the massive weighted fork to eat his eggs. His grip around a normal one is still pretty shaky, but he manages to get it done with minimal mess. I watch as his confidence wavers just a little, so I lean into him, catching his attention.
“Your first in-home therapy appointment is in a few days,” I tell him, and he nods, focused on chewing his food before turning his dark eyes to me. “You ready for it?”
“I am.” He nods again. “I don’t know why I feel so nervous about it, but…” he trails with a shrug, shoving his hands into his lap under the table, without the intention of finishing his sentence.
I reach over to place my hand over the top of his. “It’ll be fine. Remember that Wilder is there to help you. He’s no stranger to knowing how to work with you, but he can’t do that if you won’t let him. If you have concerns, voice them so that he can work through them with you. Creed and I will be there, too.” I bump his shoulder, smirking at him. “We’ll be the best cheerleaders ever.”
“You already are,” he whispers, and leans in to brush a tender kiss to my forehead. Butterflies take off in my belly with the sweet contact.
The world sort of melts away when he leans back, his eyes capturing mine again. Instantly, I’m lost to the deep, near obsidian color of his irises, his sweet face slightly flushed whenhe gifts me with a fangy smile. “How the hell did I get so lucky, Snow?”
I playfully shrug him off as if being in his presence doesn’t tilt my world off of its axis in the best way. I don’t think he or Creed could ever understand that it’s me who’s the lucky one. Their unconditional love is what fuels me to fight these demons that plague my thoughts. To be better and grow stronger. To be everything they need.
If I thought we had a ways to go before Guy fucked up our lives, it’s a hell of a battle we’re facing now. Staring into Riley’s eyes only confirms that every one of us is haunted. Haunted by soul-sucking demons who are hellbent on forcing us to relive each of our traumas on an endless loop. A lot more than luck might be what we need to cross these hurdles, but I’m determined to see to it that we all emerge on the other side of this healing journey.
Together.
Chapter 25
Riley
“FIX IT.”
“Open,” Wilder instructs, hands on his hips as he watches me closely. Flexing my fingers, I open them to reveal the foam balls in each of my palms. He takes them and replaces them with what looks like a small cut piece from a pool noodle. I’m wearing the equivalent of a resistance band, but for my hand. Really, it’s like an oversized rubber band with holes cut out for my fingers. It provides resistance for me to build back and strengthen the tiny muscles in my hands.
“Close.”
I close them.
“Now squeeze.”
My nostrils flare as the tremors return.
“Squeeze, big man,” he encourages, shifting a little closer. “C’mon. Squeeze?—”
“I’m fucking trying!” I snap, frustrated. Not at Wilder but at myself. I was doing well enough to come home, but today my hands decided to be a pair of little bitches and tremble like a sinner in church. Instantly, I feel like shit. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”
He waves me off with a sincere smile. “You’ve done it before—the exercise, not the snapping,” he teases, “and you can do it again, Riley.” He takes my wrists in his hands, gently turning them over and examining the length of my arms, front and back.
I think another part of my problem is how clingy I’ve been with Creed and Collins. My time away from them has increased my dependency on them tenfold, so I’m constantly finding myself in close proximity to one or both of them at all times. Is it healthy? Probably not, but that’s a problem for future me.
Actually, it’s kind of my problem now because I feel heavily distracted. I know the ultimate goal here, but having to spend time in the guest house for therapy instead of joining the neverending cuddle puddle between Collins and Creed is the worst. And to top it off, I’ve got the other, much less fun kind of therapy after this. The kind where I’m broken down week after week—reliving my trauma in hopes of finding ways to move past and overcome the shit that happened to me. The things I was forced to watch.
The way I had no choice but to rot in my own blood and filth while the girl I had fallen in love with was violated every day.
It’s all your fault.
It’s not your fault.
