* * *
The next day, I stand outside Stone’s apartment building. It’s on the corner of a busy street, and there’s a convenience store downstairs, people coming and going.
Upstairs, he’s recovering from the attack. He’s in pain, and I want to rush to him. But just like when I watched the men pound him, I’m horrified and iced over with fear.
I can’t move. My heart screams that I need to take care of him. He’s alone, and there’s no one else to stroke his hair and tell him that everything will be okay. He insisted I go home when they finally released him from the hospital at four in the morning, but I should have never left.
I need to be there for him. Tears burn in the corners of my eyes because I don’t know if things will be okay.
I don’t know what any of this means. I just know that I need him.
Stepping back, I focus on my breathing. I use an old exercise that my college therapist taught me, and, starting with my toes, I squeeze my muscles one at a time and relax them, working up my body.
I remind myself that I’m safe. Stone’s apartment is safe, too.
I know that I’m okay when I’m with him, but a million old, buried instincts try to tell me to run away instead.
“Don’t let the bullies win,” I whisper to myself. I’ve come all this way, picked up soup and sandwiches and a metal magazine, and I owe it to myself to at least go in.
Stone has left the door unlocked for me. The apartment is quiet and a little messy, just like usual, and he reclines on the old couch with his bandaged hand elevated above his head. His hair is messed up and uncombed, and there are red scratches across his tan cheeks.
“You came,” he says, leaning up and offering me a weak smile.
I lift the white paper bag. “Thought you could use something for dinner other than beer and frozen pizza.”
Stone winces as he moves his hand. “Nurse said I’m not allowed beer with the pain pills.”
I toss the bag on the coffee table and lean down to give him a quick kiss. “So it’s been just the frozen pizza today, I take it?”
His scruff scratches across my skin, and a part of me wants to lean in and kiss him harder. Then I catch a flash of white in the corner of my eye: the movement of his hand, wrapped tight in the brace.
My mind’s eye flashes back to the night, and the image of those men comes back in vivid focus. They’re stomping on Stone’s hand, and that picture flashes through countless other, guys twice my size shoving me to the ground or coming at me in the locker room.
I jerk back from Stone, my heart racing, but quickly try to cover my reaction up.
“I’ll get you a water,” I say, hurrying off to the kitchen.
After a second of breathing, I compose myself the best I can. It makes me sick to react like this. Whatever the hell happened last night, it’s not his fault. He doesn’t need me looking at him like he’s dangerous all of a sudden, not when my heart knows that he isn’t.
I’m so disappointed in myself. I thought I was stronger than this.
I thought I could be strong enough for him.
With a heavy sigh, I return to the living room. Stone scooches, and I take a spot on the end of the couch. He’s wearing a pair of sweatpants, and when he curls his legs in, I rest my hand on his calves.
Just this little touch nourishes me.
“How’s the tattoo?” he asks with a nod. “Give me a peek.”
I unzip my hoodie, a smile filling my face as I remember the ink. “The flaking is going away,” I say, showing him the crisp lines of the portrait. “It looks good.”
Stone nods with a satisfied grunt. “Good,” he says, then shoves the cheesesteak in his mouth for a giant bite.
I smile at the ravenous look in his eyes while he attacks the sandwich, glad I can at least help him eat. “How are you holding up?” I ask. “Have you figured out who might have done this to you?”
Stone frowns and shakes his head. “Something’s not right,” he says. “But my head is so foggy. I can’t think straight.”
“You sure you don’t want to file a police report?” I ask gently, although he’s refused when I suggested it before.
