***
“You’re not going home tonight,” Cameron says, sitting next to the bed in the hospital chair. “You guys are staying with me.”
“No.” I’m waiting in the sterile white room for the nurse to bring my paperwork. That asshole did break my wrist. He gave me a nice concussion, too. I hope he’s dead by morning.
“Savannah?”
“I don’t need your pity,” I say without looking over. I’ll have to work out this situation on my own. They gave me meds for the pain in my arm, but because of the concussion, it’s not the good stuff. At least it takes the edge off, though.
Cameron stands, his fingers interlaced on the top of his head as he paces the room.
“You’re making me dizzy,” I say. “Now call your mom and see if Evan’s okay.”
“My mom will take care of him,” he says, stopping in front of me.
“Just call her,” I say, waving my hand. But even the slightest movement sends a shock of pain up my arm, and I moan.
“Hey,” Cameron says. “Take a minute.” I look up at him, and his bottom lip juts out. “You have a black eye,” he whispers, reaching to gently run his finger under it.
His touch sends a shiver down my back. Compared to the way Patrick touched me, it’s so tender. It’s kindness.
My heart is broken—I’m broken. I start to shake. “He hurt me,” I say. “And I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t stop him, and Evan had to watch all of it.” I fall apart, curling up on my side, and then crying harder because of the pain in my arm.
The bed shifts, and Cameron is next to me, his worry and misery radiating to me. He brushes back my hair where tears are making it stick to my face.
“It’s going to be okay, Savannah,” he whispers. “I promise.”
I hate that word. Because no one can ever keep their promises—it’s a lie you tell children to make them feel better. It’s not going to be okay. And it will never be okay again.
“That bastard broke my wrist,” I mumble into the pillow. “I hate him. I hate him so much.” And I want to stab Patrick with a pencil all over again. He’s taken everything from me.
“Did . . . did he hurt you anywhere else?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the memory. “He got his cheap feel,” I say. But I’m playing it down. What Patrick did was so much worse than that. He stole my confidence, my identity.
Cameron shudders in a breath, like he’s about to choke on it. He sits up, and I turn to see him wipe his face. He stands, sniffling hard, and his posture is pure anger, and I watch him slowly get it under control.
“I need to see Evan,” I say.
“You can,” Cameron answers, looking back at me. “But I don’t want to send you home like this. Stay with me. Let Evan sleep at our house. My mom will make him pancakes in the morning—it’ll be really nice for him. You need help.” He winces at the statement. “And I know you don’t need me. So you have toletme help you.”
I close my eyes. Feeling them brim over with tears. Evan loves pancakes. And ultimately, this is about him. He’s all that matters.
“Okay,” I say. “But I’ll need to call my dad. He and Kathy might still be waiting for me. I sort of . . . took off.”
Cameron’s mouth opens, but he doesn’t say anything. He gets out his phone and helps me dial it since I suck at using my left hand.
My father is furious. Kathy waited at the house for two hours for me and Evan, threatening to call the police if my brother isn’t turned over to her tomorrow. Now she gets to make those threats.
I don’t tell my dad about Patrick—he’ll find a way to blame me anyway. I say that I went to the mall and slipped on some ice. I needed a cast, and now Evan and I are staying at a friend’s. I refuse to tell him which one. When I hang up, I hold the phone out to Cameron.
“Take me to your house,” I say, feeling small. “Just get me to Evan.”
The nurse scurries into the room and helps me get through a pile of signatures. My mind seems to be fluttering in and out, drowsy and slightly disoriented.
And the feeling of cold tile is still on my cheek.
***
