I wet my dry lips when a thick swath of grief expels through a shiver, rising in stippled bumps across the surface of my skin.
My throat squeezes, the tendons fighting against each other as I shove the vulnerability aside, the tank top too, and snatch up the black hoodie next to it instead.
Maybe tomorrow I could wear it.
But today wasn’t tomorrow.
I clench the hoodie tighter. It was Chase’s. I had refused to give it back to him a week ago, and he hadn’t so much as put up a fight. He had let me have it. I wished nothing more now than to be transported back to that moment when Chase was smiling, Jade laughing, and Harlen grinning.
I wanted my life back,I wanted mybest friendback,my mother and father too.
Slowly, I guide my arms into the large sleeves, holding onto my breath, feeling the throbbing that becomes warm and tight at the site of my gunshot wound. Thankfully, no bones hadbeen shattered but it was highly likely that I’d be left with some nerve damage that might potentially require physical therapy or further surgery. For the most part though, I had some minor tissue damage. The doctor had spoken about physical therapy and pain medication, but I couldn’t focus on anything except taking my next breath.
A gunshot wound and the pain that would follow as it slowly healed would be nothing compared to what Jade had been through.
Clenching my teeth at the sharp pain, I drag the hoodie over my head. The scent of amber and oakmoss cradles me, the comforting softness of the fabric landing half-way down the length of my pale thighs when a knock comes from behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I pull the hood around my neck and turn, expecting to see Chase, though Harlen stands in his place. His broad shoulder is resting against the large door frame, his chin dipped, golden curls spiraling around his pretty face. He has a bottle of orange juice clenched in his fist and he spins it in the palm of his hand, taking a step into the room, a small smile tilting the corner of his top lip.
“You look good today,” he states, stepping closer until he’s close enough to reach out and pull me in for a hug.
My fingers claw into the back of his T-shirt, and I rest my cheek against his chest.
“Liar,” I whisper.
His laugh is silent, though I feel it rattle behind his ribs, and I pinch him a little tighter, grateful that at least one person in this stale and lifeless building can look at me and see someone other than a victim, or the one that got away.
Harlen draws back and takes the tote bag, snatching the handles together. He doesn’t wear it, though he keeps it fisted, throwing it over his shoulder. I spin around, step into mystudded black sandals and raise my chin when Harlen speaks, starting toward the door, “Let’s get you out of here, Laik.”
But I reach out, snatch his wrist and tug him back toward me. He cuts his gaze over his shoulder and spins around briskly. “You okay?”
He’s the picture of concern, his light brows furrowing, though they settle the moment I find enough voice to speak.
“Where is he?” My words are so low, so quiet, I barely recognize my own cadence.
Harlen’s bright blue eyes stay latched to my green ones, and I glimpse resignation and remorse before he looks over my head, away from me.
He doesn’t meet my eyes again, sucking on his bottom lip, no doubt figuring out how to break to me that Chase wasn’t coming.
It has my heart falling like a stone to the pit of my stomach.
I just wanted him to say it.
“Har—” I begin to say when a knock comes from the door behind him. I let my hand slip away.
“You kids ready to go?”
Wynston, the police chief, with gray hair and bowed legs, stands at the opening of the small room.
Harlen drops his eyes to mine and the sympathy misted across the surface has my stomach clenching when he answers Wynston, though his eyes stay pierced on mine. “Yep.”
I drop my chin and rake my trembling hands through the front pieces of my loose hair, feeling my nose drip. I catch the liquid with my thumb and follow behind Harlen, accepting the bottle of juice he holds toward me. As I step up to Wynston, his head dips, eyebrows raised, and I swallow rigidly anticipating what he’s about to say.
“Laiken, sweetheart, I need to let you know that it’s a little intense out there at the moment.” He pauses and sucks back a breath of air. I watch it move through his entire frail-lookingbody before he continues to speak, “There are a lot of people that want to talk to you, that want answers to their questions…” I can see this is hard for him to vocalize, because humans often forget that behind the person they’re heckling, the person they’re trying to snatch detail from, is a woman, or a man,or just a girl, dealing with a pain that will never dull in intensity, an agony as raw and sharp, as debilitating as the wounds she will now be forced to carry. “But I want you to know that you don’t have to talk to anyone, okay?” he finishes.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, willing the tears at the back of my eyes away, dropping my head in a curt nod. A bead of sweat races down the length of my spine when Harlen places his arm around my shoulder and presses me to his side.
“I’ve got you,” he says.
I thought Chase did too, that’s what I want to tell him, only I can’t get the words out.
