“Um, I believe it was the night of their first sleepover. The next day, I guess.”
“Thanks for letting me know,” I say.
“Take care, Misty. I’ve got Bernie.”
We hang up, and Zep tilts his head. “Everything okay with her?”
“Uh, yeah. Carly’s mom heard what happened and is keeping her an extra night.” I’m not in the right headspace to ask about the Troy situation, and I stare at a vase of flowers, confused. “Where did those come from?”
Turning, Zep lets out a sigh. “Oh, those are… from me.”
“What?”
He nods intothe living room, and as we walk, I gape. Vase after vase of daisies sit on every surface of the house. The tables. The counters. And as I walk into my bedroom, they’re on the dresser and nightstands. The windowsill. My vanity.
“Bernie let me in to do this before she went with Carly’s mom. It was supposed to be a surprise when you came home from work.”
Tears fill my eyes. “No one’s ever given me flowers before.”
“I know. Bernie told me, and she said daisies were your favorite. But it’s really not important right now. I have a pretty extensive first aid kit at home. It would make me feel a lot better if I can clean up those wounds.”
He bought me flowers. My favorite flowers. And Bernie helped. He tried.
“Okay,” I whisper and take his outstretched hand.
I don’t want to stay in my house. I don’t feel safe just yet, and Zep feels safe. His house feels safe. All I want to do is curl up in his bed and let him hold me while I try to forget this night ever happened.
Chapter Forty
Zeppelin
Hearing Misty’s screams broke me. And when I saw Butch on top of her like that, her fighting as he got sick pleasure out of it, I could have killed him.
I almost did.
If Pacino hadn’t shouted that Misty asked for me, I was two seconds away from breaking his fucking neck. And I wish I had. There’s no excuse for this.
And he fucking ruined my attempt to show her how I feel. God, he needs to just die.
I lead her into my bathroom, and she gasps when she gets a look at herself in the mirror. “Wow, I’d scare children.”
Her hair is dirty and messy, and her face is swollen, cut, and red. Her knees are scraped up, and her dress is torn and dirty. It kills me to see her like this. She doesn’t deserve it.
“This will sting a bit, but I want to clean out the scrapes,” I say, guiding her to sit on the toilet. “Once we’ve cleaned it up a bit, I’m going to get you into a bath, and then we’ll feed you.”
“I can do this—”
“Stop fighting me. I’m taking care of you tonight, Misty. It feels like my fault, so please, don’t fight me on it.”
It’s the truth. The guilt eats me up, and I wouldn’t blame her if she never wants to speak to me again after tonight. She might not be in this situation if it wasn’t for me, and I hate that she got caught in the crossfire of my fucking father’s disdain for others.
She hisses as the wet gauze touches the scrape on her cheek, and I grimace. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s nothing compared to childbirth,” she jokes.
I snort and secretly wish I could experience it with her. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about my future, and all I see is her and Bernie. And another little one. Maybe two.
Her eyes follow me as I focus on treating her wounds, and she doesn’t say anything. I wish she’d tell me what she’s thinking. Does she blame me like I blame myself? Does she hate me? Does she never want to see me again? And what does this mean for Bernie?
