“You can opt out. I’ll take care of everything. You won’t need to see anybody else ever again unless you want to. You don’t need to keep abreast of current events or go online or…” The spurt of words collapses, and I peter out, ending with a lame, “Or anything.”
“I’m trying to opt out.”
The urge to overpower her, shout in her face, shake her, do anything to make her understand how wrong she is, grows in strength and I wrestle it back. I can’t see that changing her mind and even if it made me feel better, it would only last a second.
“I could take you to talk to somebody.” I clear my throat and stare at the plate of food that I can’t remember wanting. “A professional.”
“Just let it go.” Em picks up her fork and uses it to push the meal around. I should have left her cuffed and fed her. Force her to see how much I care.
How can she have done something so bad she would rather die than face it? Even when she’s a proper bitch, there’s a level of amusement to it. Like she’s putting in the effort because high school is a piece of performance art, and she wants to ace the class.
Although, I might think that because I’ve never been on the receiving end of her nastiness. Maybe what I’ve seen is the toned-down version. Maybe there’s something a thousand times worse lurking in her past.
That could be the key. She’s too ashamed to tell me, even though keeping her secret costs her so dearly.
If I set the stage, reveal my horror stories, she might feel comfortable enough to share.
Maybe the things I’m most ashamed of will put her nightmares into perspective.
My heart beats louder at the thought of sharing. Fear. Horror. My vision tips and slides to the right like it’s a capsizing vessel.
You’re not really thinking of telling her, are you? It’s not even your secret. Not entirely. She could use it to hurt you, hurt your friends.
But an Em well enough to exact revenge is exactly what I’m after, even if my triple-timing pulse isn’t quite on board with my visions of the future.
My hand shakes as I pick up my fork and take a bite, having to force myself to chew and swallow when my mouth is drier than a sandpit in the height of summer.
“Did Zach ever tell you about our friend Robbie?”
No. Just… no.What the fuck are you doing?
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
EM
Caylon trembles and it makes me nervous. He’s the one in charge here. He should be in control.
I put my hand over his and his fingers take advantage, linking through mine and squeezing, making my knuckles creak and groan. Not that the pain makes me let go. We both need the comfort more than we need relief.
“We used to hang around together, the four of us. Trent and Zach paired off a lot of the time, so Robbie and I did, too.”
His face runs through about four dozen emotions in a row, so quickly that I struggle to pin any of them down.
Regret. Annoyance, maybe.
I can imagine that. Caylon is such a top-of-the-heap type of guy that being in the second-tier friendship pairing must have rankled.
If this is his great story of regret, he’s kind of missed the mark.
I think he’s about to let go of my hand, shifting in his seat, when instead he plucks me out of my chair and lays me across his lap, burying his head in the curve of my shoulder. “He was stupid but in a fun way, you know. Always getting things wrong in a way that was catastrophic in the moment and hilarious afterwards.
I wriggle around, trying to find a comfortable place to sit. Caylon hooks his feet up on the rungs of the chair, tipping me against his chest.
The heat of his exhalations warms my skin, and I cling to him. Losing my anger in gratitude that at least I have this before everything goes to shit again.
If he thinks some story about a second-rate best friend is going to shed light on my predicament, he’s very much mistaken, but it’s nice. Hearing him say something that isn’t a compliment, or a sharply barbed insult. The swings and roundabouts between the two extremes being a straight line where he’s concerned.
“Zach tell you about our little side-hustle?”
