Page 27

That's an insane life story.

That's the story of a man who's already survived losing everything and rebuilt himself into something harder. Something that doesn't break under pressure.

Still. Cole is vindictive. Cole holds grudges. Cole doesn't forgive and he doesn't forget.

I shift position slightly. The sheets rustle. Suddenly I can’t help but notice how gross I feel. I worked a full shift. Stood at a register for eight hours scanning groceries and dealing with difficult customers. Got hit by my boyfriend in a parking lot. Cried in a diner. Haven't showered, changed clothes or done any of the things that might make me feel even slightly human again.

I'm all sweaty. My work polo sticks to my back. My hair is plastered to my forehead. I probably smell like the supermarket, a combination of industrial cleaner, register tape, and too many hours under fluorescent lights.

"Gabriel?" My voice is quiet in the darkness. Hesitant.

"Yeah?" He responds immediately. Not groggy. Definitely wasn't asleep.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Really? Because you're lying on top of the covers in a motel room babysitting someone you barely know because her psychotic ex-boyfriend might show up looking for revenge."

"That's an accurate summary of the situation."

Despite everything, I almost smile. "Most people would consider that not fine."

"I'm not most people."

"Clearly." I'm quiet for a moment. Then, "Would you be okay with me taking a shower?"

"Of course. You don't need to ask permission."

"I just… I feel disgusting. I worked all day and I haven't changed and—" I stop. Realize I'm rambling. "I'd just feel better if I could shower. If that's okay."

"Paige." His voice is gentle. Patient. "Take a shower. Take as long as you need. I'll keep my back to the bathroom door and I won't look. I promise."

"Thank you."

I slide out of bed. The pillow wall stays intact. Gabriel doesn't move, doesn't watch me cross the room. True to his word, he stays exactly where he is, face toward the door, giving me privacy I didn't ask for but desperately need.

The bathroom is small and dated but clean. Cracked tile. Rust stains in the sink. But the shower has decent water pressure, and the towels are scratchy but serviceable.

I turn on the water as hot as it'll go. Steam fills the small space. I peel off my work clothes, the polo that smells like eight hours of customer service, the jeans I've been wearing since six this morning, the underwear I should've changed hours ago.

Look at myself in the foggy mirror.

The bruise on my cheek is spectacular. Deep purple bleeding into greenish-yellow at the edges. My eye is slightly swollen. My lip is split where my teeth caught it when I fell.

I look like a victim.

I hate it.

Step into the shower and let the hot water beat against my shoulders. Close my eyes and try to wash away the last twelve hours. The last six months. The last year of bad decisions and worse excuses.

The water turns my skin pink. I scrub with the cheap motel soap until I feel somewhat clean. Wash my hair twice. Stand under the spray until the hot water starts to run lukewarm.

When I finally step out, I realize I have a problem.

I don't have clean clothes.

Just the work polo and jeans I was wearing. The ones that smell like sweat and fear and everything I'm trying to wash away. I wrap myself in the scratchy towel. Crack open the bathroom door slightly.