“We’re sorry. The mailbox is full. Goodbye.” There’s a beep, and the line cuts out.
I stare at my phone screen for a second in disbelief.
Really?
I try again and get the same message. Has she not been checking them? Has she not seen my voicemails building up? With no inclination to listen to them—or delete?
I call her again, the hysteria climbing my throat.
This time, it doesn’t even ring. It just goes straight to that message.
Funny. I thought… I thought I’d have her if I truly needed her. Like if I was hurt and needed help, I could ask her to come back. And I thought she would. It’s a lie, though. A fabrication I created to make myself feel better.
A noise rips out of me. It comes out in a screech, like nails on a chalkboard. The sound cuts my throat, but I can’t stop it from bursting out. I don’t know what possesses me.
“Violet,” Willow says, shaking my shoulders. “Violet,stop.”
I close my mouth.
The sound is still building behind my teeth. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, trying to seal it out. Agony lances through me, and if she wasn’t holding on to me, I would fall to the floor. My vision swims.
“Breathe.” Willow looks over her shoulder. “She’s not breathing. Someone—fucking hell.”
White spots dance in my eyes, and I try to focus on her—I do. I really try. But there’s so much going on in my body. My skin is on fire. My lungs burn. My mind is going a thousand miles a second, racing toward the inevitable conclusion.
That my mother just doesn’t. Fucking. Care.
Willow releases me and steps back. I grasp at her, but then someone else steps in.
Greyson.
A sob bursts out of me, and I fold in half in front of him. I just know, somewhere deep in my heart, that he’d come for me even when all else failed.
But he’s the last one who should suffer through my public meltdown.
Maybe he feels differently, because his arm slides under my knees and behind my back. He scoops me up like I’m weightless and cradles me to his chest. My mouth is open, desperate for air, but nothing comes.
I’mnot weightless. I’ve got a thousand pounds on my chest.
He carries me into a bathroom and sets me on the counter. He’s between my knees now, holding my face in both his hands. His lips touch mine, and I don’t know what to do with that. My mind shorts out.
I grip his shirt and anchor myself to him.
He kisses me through my tears and mess, pushing air into my lungs.
It isn’t so much a kiss as a resuscitation.
His breath fills my chest.
I exhale in a rush, through my nose.
We repeat, and I don’t have time to think. My mind stutters to a stop, just aware of his fingers splayed across my face, and his lips on mine. I tug at his shirt, inching closer. Until I can wrap my legs around his hips and fully press my torso to his.
He pulls away, just slightly, and looks me over. He swipes his thumbs under my eyes, catching tears and probably no shortage of running mascara.
“You always see me at my worst,” I murmur, a lump forming in my throat again. I’m too greedy taking deep gulps of air to say more. I feel like I just starved myself of oxygen for too long. The dizziness is still there, pushing at the edges of my consciousness.
“I want to see you at your worst,” he replies. “And your best. And everything in between.”