Trevor, meanwhile, keeps shifting his weight, finding excuses to brush a hand along my thigh, my arm, my shoulder. Every touch feels like spiders crawling over my skin, and I only wish he were being more obvious about it, so either Trips or I could stop him without it looking like we’re overreacting.
I pop to my feet as soon as everyone finishes clapping, hoping the guys have a plan to get to us. But Trips’ dad stands up on Trips’ other side, Trevor on mine, and they begin a conversation around us, trapping us between them.
“This Gwendolyn Shaw who’s playing after intermission, she went to Lakeside Academy with you, didn’t she?” Papa Westerhouse asks.
Trevor steps a little closer in the guise of struggling to hear his father, his arm flush against mine. “I think she was a year or two behind me, but I’m not sure. Seeing her will probably jog my memory.” A finger draws along the seam over my hip, and I skitter away, pressing myself tight to Trips’ side.
“I hate to interrupt, but I need the restroom,” I say.
The weight of his father’s eyes on mine should make me crumple, but instead, I meet his gaze. And after a moment, he steps back, making space for Trips and me to pass, motioning for Falk to follow us.
The crowd in the hallway moves towards the lobby, and I let it pull me along, Trips’ hand a hot comfort around mine. I catch sight of RJ first, followed swiftly by Walker, and my heart lights up, even as a piece of me aches over the fact that Jansen isn’t here with them.
What happened? Where is he? I’m glad he’s safe, of course, but without more information, the terror still scrabbles at my insides, even if I’m trying to pretend it’s not there. Flicking myeyes to an alcove near a bathroom, I head that way, knowing they’ll follow.
Which just leaves Falk.
Will he let us meet? Will he report back to Trips’ dad?
At least Smith isn’t here. Was that why Trips was so quick to act earlier? To get him off the gameboard for a night? Or was it just chance that Smith was extra assholey tonight and just chance that Trips reacted so strongly?
That thought brings me to another, and I halt, the realization big enough that I can’t feel it and keep moving. Smith touched me, hurt me, and Trips reacted with violence.
But he didn’t lose control. He stayed present, able to use reason instead of instinct.
The man in question stops in front of me, gaze curious as I process what happened. Blinking back tears, I look up at him.
“You didn’t lose it,” I say, taking his other hand in mine. His confusion meets my statement.
“With Smith. You didn’t lose it.”
He blinks a few times, something softer in his gaze. “I’m trying.”
“I see it.”
Swallowing back the emotion, knowing this isn’t the time or place, I squeeze his hands in mine, showing, even in a small way, how much this means to me. And he must understand, because he tugs me to him, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
When we move again, his hand wraps around my waist, keeping me close to him, and RJ and Walker watch us with questioning eyes.
We all arrive at the alcove at the same time. Turning to Falk, I find he’s already turned his back to us. “Young people need some privacy,” he says, staring out at the crowd.
“Thank you,” I say, before spinning and launching myself into Walker’s arms. His lips are warm and familiar, the pine andmaple scent of him making my barely contained tears threaten to fall again. “God, I’ve missed you,” I whisper before twisting and tugging RJ to me, his arms around me so welcome my heart wants to leap from my chest and burrow into his.
This kiss is slower, gentler, but just as soul satisfying. And when I pull back, the three of them surrounding me, blocking me from view, I’m trembling. “Missed you, too, sugar,” he says, eyes soft.
“Where’s Jay?” Trips asks from behind me, and I realize that even if I’ve found a way to communicate, it’s barely adequate.
“He’s at an inpatient treatment facility,” RJ answers.
I take longer than I should to process that. They said he got help, but I’d imagined he found a therapist or went home for the week. “What? Why?”
Walker tugs me into his arms, turning me so I can see the other two. “He’s been on edge for a while.”
“Well, yeah, but inpatient treatment? For what?”
Walker’s hand splays across my stomach, like he needs to feel me under each individual finger. But it’s RJ who answers, my hand in his. “Bipolar disorder. They’re keeping him because the drugs can make you manic before you stop being depressed. And with his history, they don’t want him doing something permanent.”
“Why would he have a history of doing something permanent?” Trips asks, the growl in his voice easily mistaken for anger. But it’s obvious to me he’s worried, not furious.
