I hold her tighter, making a silent vow that her ex will pay for this. Matt VanCamp is a dead man. I’ll destroy him.
I rock her through her sobs, letting her cry until she’s empty. Even then, I don’t let go.
When we go to bed, Peyton asks me to hold her.
She’s lying on her side, facing away from me, and her voice comes small and uncertain in the darkness.
“Liam?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you…” She hesitates. “Would you come under the covers and hold me tonight? Please?”
I don’t answer with words. I shift under the comforter, fitting my body against the curve of hers, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her back against my chest.
It’s the same position I wake up in every morning. But it’s no longer an involuntary reflex.
This time is intentional.
Her wanting me close. Needing me close. Choosing to let me comfort her. And me wanting to.
I press my face into her hair and breathe her in.
And in the silence, holding her tight, I silently renew my vow to dismantle the man who did this to her piece by piece until he’ll have nothing left but regrets.
Whatever it takes.
* * *
Friday after work, Peyton has a bag packed to go home. I carry the luggage to her car, the crisp fall air tinged with woodsmoke from somewhere down the road.
She’s wearing jeans and one of my sweatshirts she’s taken to stealing. Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. She looks tired. Worried. Beaten down. Still brutally beautiful.
“Text me when you get there,” I say, setting her bag in the trunk.
“I will.”
“Drive safe.” I close the trunk and turn to face her. “And if you need anything?—”
“I’ll call.” She steps closer and wraps her arms around me.
I hug her back, holding her a beat too long.
“I’ll see you Sunday,” she says into my chest.
“Sunday,” I repeat.
She pulls away, climbs into her car, and drives off. I stay until her taillights disappear around the bend in the road.
That night, I watch the Bobcats’ away game on television. They win by fourteen points. I barely register the score.
Peyton texts once to say she’s arrived safely. I reply, asking her to let me know how it goes.
But she never responds. Which, fair. We aren’t in a real relationship. She doesn’t owe me constant updates. She doesn’t owe me anything.
Saturday, I mope. There’s no other word for it. I wander from room to room, unable to settle. I try to work, but the numbersblur. I try to read, but the words won’t stick in my brain. I stand at the kitchen island and stare at the dry-erase board, deciding this restlessness is just boredom because I have no one to fight with.
I spend the rest of Saturday convincing myself of that.
