“I’m sorry,” I breathe. “He’s your friend. I should have told you sooner.”
His head snaps up, eyes sharp on mine. “Don’t apologize. Don’t youeverfucking apologize. I feel sick to my stomach hearing you say that.” He jolts to his feet and begins pacing. “I made you sleep in a house with that guy. I made you go on vacation with him! I left you alone with him. I—” He freezes, scrubbing his hand down his face as it crumples. “He left marks on your skin tonight. Fuckingmarks.”
I rush over to him, gripping his waist. “None of that is your fault. I should have told you, but I just…I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t?—”
He pulls me into his arms, pressing a kiss on the top of my head. When he speaks, his voice is a broken whisper. “How could he do that to you? What kind of evil person…what kind of sick person would do that?Coulddo that? I can’t—I think I’m in shock. I’ve known him since we were fucking kids. I feelsick. I don’t—I can’t?—”
Abruptly, he releases me and stumbles into the bathroom. Moments later I hear him retching, and I drop to my knees with my head in my hands. I can’t contain my own sobs anymore, the emotion bursting free and overflowing, and my chest heaves as I sit on Wes’s carpet and just cry.
Sometime later, strong arms wind around me, pulling me up onto my knees. Wes kneels in front of me, and I fist his bloody, wrinkled button-up, burying my face in his chest. The tears keep flowing, I don’t think they’ll ever stop, soaking the fabric of his shirt. His voice is almost detached when he murmurs, “What kind of person would do that? How could someone fucking do that?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper back. “I don’t know.”
Because I don’t.
I don’t think I ever will.
And I have to learn to somehow accept that.
It’s the only way I can move on.
THIRTY-EIGHT
We sitlike that for a long time, clinging to each other. I focus on his breathing, letting it center me. I listen to his heartbeat, letting it steady me. When I move to pull away, he only grips me tighter, crushing me against his chest and burying his face deep in my hair. I squeeze him harder and let the minutes tick by.
When we finally break apart, I take his hand in mine, examining the angry, broken skin of his knuckles, raw and bleeding. “Have you ever punched someone before?” I ask quietly.
He flexes his fingers, wincing at the movement. “Never.”
“You should ice it.”
“I should.”
Neither of us moves.
“You should shower,” I say, eyeing the blood smeared across his neck and face. It’s splattered over his white button-up, too, probably forever staining the fabric.
“I should,” he says.
But neither of us moves.
Downstairs the music pulses, vibrating through the floorboards and the walls. I hear laughter and the sound of people cheering, but it all seems so far away now.
“The party…” I murmur, thinking of all of Wes’s friends. Thinking of all the people who probably want to spend time with the man beside me. “I’m sorry I ruined it.”
Wes’s hands move up to squeeze my shoulders as his eyes bore into mine. “You didn’t ruin anything, Ivy. Nothing.”
“Okay,” I whisper, choosing to believe the sincerity in his eyes and the conviction in his voice. His gaze holds mine for a moment longer before he pulls me into his chest again, his good hand stroking my hair.
“You’re right, though,” he says after a while, his chest vibrating with the words. I pull back so I can see his face. “I should shower. You should too. I’m sorry about your shirt.”
Confused, I look down at my t-shirt, surprised when I see blood smeared across the blue cotton. “Oh.” I notice my palms and fingers, as well, stained from the places I gripped Wes’s hand. I don’t know whose blood it is, Wes’s or Mason’s, and my hands start to shake.
“You can go first, Ives.”
My eyes drift back to his. I can’t bear to have him out of my sight. “Can we go together?”
“Of course,” he says without hesitation, like he can’t bear to be away from me either, and he pulls me up and into the bathroom.
