Looks like this is as close to closure as I’ll get.
My lips go to his, and I feel the nurse tug my hand away as she goes to work. Rye’s tongue slips into my mouth with familiar, expert ease, and his good hand goes to my hair as he pulls me closer, devouring me in a way that only destroys me more.
I always confused his passion for love. And now I remember why it was so hard to be strong around him.
My hands tangle in the soft strands of his short hair as I say a thousand words with this one kiss. Everything I’ve felt, everything I’ve wanted him to know, and every ounce of pain I’ve had all go into this kiss, and he moans while tugging at my small, thin shorts.
“Just a kiss,” I murmur against his lips, ignoring the tang of my salty tears as they start to invade.
He nods and moves his hand back up to my hair, and he kisses me harder, as though he’s saying all the same things I am. And it hurts. It hurts so damn bad that it feels as though the pain is manifesting into a physical mass inside my chest, pressing against me with a heavy force, and making it hard to breathe.
All I want to do is run out of here and cry. And I will. The second I leave this room, it’s going to be a painful, breath-stealing, heart-achingly, agonizing cry that rivals a wolf’s mournful howl at the moon. And then I’m never going to speak to him again.
This is it. This is our goodbye. He’s drunk as hell, his hand is bleeding, and he has no idea what he’s doing, but right now he’s giving me the closure I need, even though it only makes it hurt worse.
“Brin,” he murmurs against my lips. “Stay tonight.” It’s a whispered plea that sends an ache too deep inside me and almost decimates my resolve, because he’s so sincere right now. But in the morning, everything would be terrible—worse than it already is.
My tears don’t wait until I’m out of the room to start dripping harder; they burn down my cheeks with a feverishly rapid succession. I move my lips back to his, hoping it’s enough to keep him quiet. I love him and hate him with every breath we exchange, but I hate myself the most.
I did this to myself. I was fine before him, but I’m ruined now.
“I love you,” I whisper just as the nurse finishes up.
“I know,” he groans, turning his head away. “But you can’t. Love is temporary, and it’s a bitter bitch when it leaves. I can’t be responsible for your happiness like he was hers. Like I was. I can’t handle more guilt, and I’ll fuck up again.”
I have no idea what his drunken words mean, but I stand up as he tries to move. I don’t bother learning the nurse’s name, or thanking her for all her help. I can’t. I can’t say another word. Rye is okay now, and I have to go before I fall apart in front of everyone.
I sprint across the yard as he calls my name, yelling for me. And I hear the first punch someone takes. I hope it’s Ethan. I look back in time to see it is Ethan, and I almost smile, but that smile fades with all the weight of my misery.
He’s drunk. He’ll break my heart in the morning because he’s drunk enough to love me tonight. But when he’s sober...
I keep running down the street with no idea where I’m going, but Maggie pulls up beside me in her car, and I hop in the back seat.
“Saw the drama. Feel like pancakes?”
I just laugh and sniffle at the same time, and she drives away. She and Carmen are still in robes, and I’m not even wearing a bra.
“Don’t worry,” Carmen says, smiling softly. “It’ll get better.”
I doubt it. But I don’t bother arguing. There’s nothing left to say.
Chapter 16
RYE
“Why the fuck do I have stitches?” I growl, glaring at my throbbing, swollen, and bruised hand. The crisscrossed stitches seem to be professionally done, but I’m still wondering if Dr. Frankenstein broke into my house last night and played mad scientist on my hand.
Everything is too fuzzy, and all the memories are hidden under a thick veil of fog.
“Because you’re a clumsy bastard,” Ethan groans, raising up from the sofa that’s in my room.
His black eye gives me pause. “Why is your eye black?”
He laughs as he stands up, stretching as he shakes his head.
“Because you’re a clumsy bastard with a mean right hook.”
I slowly get out of bed, cursing my aching right hand when the internal throbbing grows to be more vicious. And damn, it itches. But the itch feels like it’s under three layers of very tender flesh.