I laugh, even though there’s nothing funny in what I’m telling him. “Do you want to know how the school finally worked it out?”
He shifts, probably wanting to say no. Instead, whispering, “Yes.”
“The smell.” My voice cracks on the word. “It didn’t matter how often I washed my clothes or myself in the cold water of the sink, every time I walked in that classroom, I smelt a bit more like her. A bit more like death.”
And the tears come again. There’s so much more to say. So many more secrets to reveal.
I haven’t gone anywhere near the shit I pulled on his mother. The wreck I made of her life all for the grand prize of not upsetting the couple I live with. The ones I depend on for everything. That I might always depend on because I’m not like Rowena, I’m not smart. I’m not like Seb, athletic.
The world scares me the same way it did when I was an eight-year-old girl.
I chose the wrong path, but I had nothing but terrible options. How could I know a pinch of bad lingers, spoiling the batch of all that’s good?
The pretty clothes and the pretty house and the pretty couple overwhelmed me. The wealthy people who looked so much more like good parents than my actual parent ever had.
But none of that is for now.
I’m in pain. I need to rest. A nap and then I’ll pick up the threads and tie some more together. Weave them into a narrative Seb might have the chance to understand.
Now is for drifting on the waves of codeine and alcohol. Hugged close to the comforting body of this boy who hasn’t walked away yet.
Who might… and I barely dare to dream this.
Who might not walk away at all.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
ESME
I wake longbefore I can bring myself to open my eyes. Seb’s arm lies across my waist, him lying on his front beside me.
Parts of yesterday are missing from my memory, but not the portions where he looked after me. Where he showed me how much he cared.
My rigid heart expands a little, still cautious, still expecting at any moment to be hurt. But it opens enough to let in a sliver of his warmth, basking in it like a tourist in the tropical sun.
I move and find the pain louder than when I fell asleep last night, bigger, but with smoother edges. I’m sure the codeine will get me through the day just fine.
“Hey,” I whisper in Seb’s ear, pushing at his shoulder until he reluctantly wakens. “You need to get back to your own room.”
“Rubbish,” he murmurs, curling closer to me. “You still need supervision.”
“Mm. Just supervise me from one metre over.”
He cracks open an eye, rolling onto his back and ruffling his hair. “It’s far too early to be kicking me out of bed. Where’s your empathy?”
Despite the protest, he swings his legs around and stands, turning in a slow circle. He tidies things away, recapping the wine and storing it in the drawer, checking the level on the pills, then going into the bathroom and pouring a glass of water before bringing it back with my next dosage cupped in his palm.
“Take these.” He hands me the pills, then the water to sip, all of which I manage with the least amount of movement possible.
Once I hand the empty glass back to him, I expect him to go, but he seats himself on the edge of the bed again, staring at me with concern.
“What?” I ask, shifting a little under the covers, not used to this much face time this early.
“Do you remember what we talked about last night?”
My throat clutches and my eyes widen with fear, heart hammering at a thousand beats a minute. I scour through the fragments of the day; being hit, the clinic, the doctor examining me while asking repeatedly who did it.
Was it the boy in the waiting room? Should she call the head? Should she call the police?
