Page 43

"You're a fighter," Emma says this bluntly as if it’s a scientific conclusion—like I’m a code she’s been trying to decipher.

"Used to be," I emphasize. "My past, remember. I haven't gotten that angry in a long time.” I release a breath, still aware of the fire in my veins. “It scared me."

"It scared me too," I admit. I seek the truth of it in her flickering eyes. Whether she’s still scared of me. My heartbeat races at just the thought that she might be. I never want to see fear on a girl’s face again because of me. When I see it on Sadie’s face… it nearly kills me.

"The whole thing scared me," Emma admits. "Let's just say tonight sucked all around."

"Yeah, it did." I collapse back against the couch, spent. I lose Emma to her thoughts again, so I tilt my head to bring her back. She reluctantly meets my eyes.

There’s a silent exchange between us. We’ve seen too much in our lives. I need her to know that tonight was a big deal. As shitty as it was, it was about to be so much worse until she stepped in to calm me.

I break our connection and lean back again.

"What were you going to ask me?" she asks.

"You said you thought it would be different. What did you mean?"

“I haven’t lived with her for almost five years,” she says, staring out the window, transported back to the place that’s held her captive since we returned. "She's been hurt before, and I don't want her to go through that again. I just want it to be different for her, for us."

“Where were you during those five years?”

“In hell.”

I wish I could say this surprised me. But every nightmare has an origin story. Birthed from a place of pain and deceit. After some time, her breathing evens out and her eyes close, and I hope I haven’t lost her to the underworld of her nightmares.

I remove her jacket from her lap and hang it on the rocking chair, slipping off her shoes and placing them underneath. Shaking out one of the folded blankets I’ve used way too many nights, I cover her and let her sleep.

I sit back down, mulling over what she said. But mostly what she didn’t.

Emma shifts from her seated position to lying down, resting her head on my thigh. I consider waking her so she can sleep in her room. But when she curls her legs to her chest, the hem of her jeans hikes up to reveal a scar on her ankle. The result of multiple surgeries. I have several and recognize it instantly.

I have a feeling we were living in the same fiery pit, reigned over by similar demons.

The creak of a floorboard wakes me. I lift my head off the back of the couch. Emma scrunches her face. “Sorry.”

“What time is it?” I can barely focus on my watch. I didn’t intend to fall asleep. But I’ve been lacking it for so long, it slips in without permission lately. “I should get going.” I yawn, stretching my arms wide.

“You’re not staying?”

“Um.” The question catches me off guard.

“I mean,” she fumbles. “I thought that―”

“I can stay,” I say, thinking maybe she’s still shaken by what happened at the bar. My eyes climb the stairs, and I release a breath. I really don’t want to be here when she wakes up. I don’t even know how to begin to process what I saw—Rachel unresponsive and intoxicated. Vulnerable to anyone without a conscience. And that place looked like it left them at the door.

“You don’t have to.” Emma’s voice brings me back.

“I don't understand what happened last night.” I flop my head back against the couch and stare at the ceiling. "I've seen her drunk, and I've seen her get emotional. But I've never seen her that bad before.”

I feel the cushion sink beside me. “She was upset.” I roll my head to look at Emma. She’s determined to explain it away. “I'm sure it's been hard having me move back in, too. I remind her of my father, and that… hurts her. I want to fix us, but I don't know how—if I'm the reason she's in pain.” And it’s so easy for Emma to blame herself. Guilt shrouds her features.

Fuck. How many times have I been just as willing to take the blame? If only I swam faster. Got better grades. Was more helpful around the shop. Then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be so angry.

“You didn’t do this to her,” I say quietly. She peers down at her hands. "And as much as I feel guilty for not calling her back, I didn't do this to her either." I recognize the truth of it as soon as I say it.

“Can I ask you something?” Even though I have no right to the answer.

“Sure.”