“Well, being alive is hard, too. Dealing with all this shit in my head. Every name everyone’s ever called me. All the messed-up things they’ve done.”
I feel the same panic as Friday. The moments when I thought I’d arrived too late. “And those voices, telling you not to trust me, that I’m lying, that you shouldn’t want me. Aren’t those the same voices saying you’re better off dead?” Her mouth tightens a moment before her eyes drop. “Why are you listening to them at all?”
“Because you’re dating my enemy. Because no one ever lives up to their promises.”
“I’m not—” I cut myself off, pressing my knuckles hard against my mouth.
This issue won’t go away, and Ophelia’s right. If I don’t stand up to my father now, there will always be a next time. My mother showed me that.
“Okay.”
She recoils, and I realise I’m shouting.
Nothing is reined in like it should be. My whole world is spinning out of control.
In a softer tone. “Okay. Yes. If that’s what you need, then yes. I’ll break up with Chelsea and tell my dad.”
There’s a single beat of stunned silence, then I’m plunged into darkness, arm aching, shivering no defence against the bone-deep cold of the surrounding rock.
But the basement’s just physical pain and I’ve lived through it before. The fear might tighten my lungs, turn my lips cold, but if I can’t convince Ophelia, if I can’t keep her here, I’m terrified something far worse will hit me.
“I’ll do it today, after I drop you at home. Get it all sorted before Monday.” My words are as much a reassurance for me as for her, even when I’m gripping her hands tight, staring into her eyes. “We can start over with a fresh slate.”
Chelsea will be easy.
A few minutes on her doorstep. A few expressions of faux concern.
Then home. Then my father.
And I have no idea what that will involve at all.
I press a kiss on Ophelia’s lips, then stay close, inhaling her breath like my lungs won’t work on their own.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
OPHELIA
Damien peelsaway from the curb the moment I step out of the car. The walk to my house seems longer than usual, wearing his borrowed clothes, the scent of cologne and sweat rich on my skin. My thighs ache with every step and my thoughts are floating thanks to the weed.
The back door opens with its familiar creak, and I slip inside, already rehearsing my excuse about the late hour, about staying with a friend to work on our music project.
Bryan usually goes to bed early on Sundays. He probably won’t…
The dining room light clicks on.
He sits at the table, hands folded in front of him like he’s been waiting. The lower half of his face is in shadow, and my breath hitches as he glares through his swollen left eye.
“Jesus.” My voice is tremulous, fingers plucking at my shirt. “What happened to you?”
Even the surrounding skin is puffy, bruised purple from temple to cheekbone. A cut splits his eyebrow, crusted with dried blood.
“Sit down.” His voice is cold.
I take the seat opposite, the farthest away.
“Where were you?”
His gaze fixes on me with unusual intensity. This isn’t a version of Bryan I’ve seen before, and my hands clasp together tightly under the table.
