***Adriane***
The line went dead.
Frustration and anger crawled through me like a virus. I pulled air into my chest and focused on one of the trees, on the pretty lines of the limbs.
Ben came out to find me a few minutes later. The tread of his shoes was slow, tentative. “Adriane?”
I turned and handed him back his phone. “Thank you.” I walked along the side of the garage and into the woods at the back of the house. I didn’t care that the twigs hurt my bare feet.
After dinner, I made myself sit with Hanna and Ben during the news. The newscasters droned on forever. I barely heard the stories, barely heard the voices. I listened carefully for the sound of a car, or footsteps, or voices from outside. I kept my notebook tilted up and close to me, so no one would see the page was blank.
Eventually, Hanna went to bed. Ben lingered.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, um, I remembered my friend’s birthday is today. I didn’t want her to think I’d forgotten. Don’t worry. Alec won’t mind.”
I stood and started toward the stairs. “Goodnight, Ben.”
He paused. “’Night.” Then he headed down the hall.
I doubted he believed me, but he was even better at not prying than Hanna. There were a lot of secrets in this house, but even more trust.
As soon as the sound of his heavy steps disappeared behind the click of a latch, I veered my path and went to the kitchen, to where I could watch the drive. I left most of the lights off, so I could hide in the darkness.
My mind kept running through scenarios, waking nightmares. The silence of the phone gave me some small hope. If anything went wrong, Hanna would be called…right?
What if that wasn’t possible? He had no one with him. If something happened, who was going to call?
Waking nightmares were almost as bad as the ones in sleep. They didn’t feel quite as real, but my conscious thoughts drove them, didn’t let them turn to fuzz at the back of my mind.
I had to see him when he came home—when—but I wanted to appear rational, like someone he could talk to, explain what in the world was going through his head.
That helped—being angry at him. I focused on that.
And still I waited. The countertop dug into me while I leaned over it and craned my neck to see as much of the drive as possible.
Finally, headlights.
They seemed to move a little more slowly than how he usually drove. It had to be too late for any of the others to show, unless they wanted to wait for him, to make sure he was all right. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to talk to him. Maybe he would need to talk to them.
No, I had to. I would demand it if necessary.
I lifted myself up, supporting myself on just the edge of the counter, like a gymnast on the uneven bars. I could barely see the garage.
Someone stepped out of the shadows, illuminated for a few seconds by the red of the brake lights. It looked like maybe Vincent.
A tall frame stepped out of the garage, away from the parked car. It was Alec. I knew it was him by the straight set of his frame.
I slipped off the edge of the counter and onto my feet. He was still standing straight. He was okay. Until I got my hands on him.
He came into view as he walked up to the house, alone. The door opened, and he walked inside and turned to me, as if he knew I was there. He said nothing.
My voice was quiet. “What were you thinking?”
He didn’t respond.
“Alec,” I demanded.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I glared at him. Then I felt my glare start to slip and turned away.
His voice was quiet, careful. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
He was still quiet, surely trying to figure me out. “You’re angry.”
“You could’ve been hurt.” Then I added, “I don’t want anyone hurt because of me.”
“How did you know?”
“They’ve been tense. It was the worst last night.”
The conversation paused.
His footsteps.
He was just behind me and took my hand. I should’ve yanked it away, but I couldn’t. His hands were cool and soothing.
“I’m sorry, Adriane.”
I took a breath, and it shook.
He pulled me into his arms. All I could do was hold on to him.
With a gentle hand, he stroked my hair, pulled it away from my face. “I know you’ve been upset,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make it worse. I didn’t think you would figure… I didn’t think it would…” He pressed me more tightly to his chest.
He didn’t think what? That his being hurt would upset me? I moved my head to his shoulder so I could speak clearly, so I could demand to know what he was thinking. He was my friend, right? Don’t friends care—
As I touched his shoulder, he tightened, just the slightest change.
I glared up at him. He just looked at me.
“You’re hurt,” I said.
He was really good at lying. “No.”
“Yes, you are.”
He didn’t answer. His expression gave nothing away.
“Take off your jacket,” I said.
“I’m fine, Adriane.”
My voice was quiet. “Please.”
He paused, and then he nodded.
I held his collar, and his right arm moved stiffly as he let the jacket fall from his shoulders. I laid it across the back of one of the chairs, and then began unbuttoning his shirt. I half held my breath and kept my gaze resolutely on the white fabric, on the not entirely clean white fabric. He smelled of not just his own sweat. He’d been in a fight.
He let me unbutton and didn’t help, didn’t pull away to do it himself. He only watched, perhaps waiting for me to be upset.
I lifted his hand, and he held it up so I could unbutton his cuff. I carefully slipped the shirt off—and gasped at the sight of his shoulder, at the mass of black that turned to brown then green as it travelled down his chest and arm.
“It looks much worse than it is,” he said.
I went to the freezer to get ice, put it in a large freezer bag, and wrapped it in a towel.
“That’s not necessary,” he said. “I’m fine.”
I came back to him. “Sit.”
“I’ve had much worse. You don’t need to—”
“Please,” I said with a soft voice. “Let me take care of you.”
His expression cleared, all argument gone. He sat and was quiet.
I gingerly rested the ice on his shoulder. He tightened slightly, barely noticeable. I held the icepack as still as possible.
He was looking at me.
I kept my gaze on the ice. “Does it help?”
The light touch of his fingertips on my chin brought my gaze to his. He barely murmured, “Thank you.”
I couldn’t look away.
That mask of his slipped. There was still pain, like something deep in his mind was screaming, but that was only a part of what he’d been hiding, a small part. I saw him clearly for the first time, saw what he really thought—what he thought of me.
Everything blared in my ears, like the dial being turned on a radio. It wasn’t sound though; the room was silent. The silence was deafening.
The numbing blanket that I always held so tightly around me ripped away. I felt like I was coming to the surface after having been submerged, after having grown used to the sensory deprivation, the isolation, the oppressive deadening of my surroundings. The surface broke, and I could breathe. The oxygen tasted cleaner.
His touch—my God. The coolness of his fingertips permeated through the deepest layers of my skin as he stroked from my temple to cheek. I shivered internally.
I wanted more.
His gaze was intense. He was reading me, carefully.
While holding my gaze, he took the ice from my hand and set it on the table. He stood.
He rested his hand on my cheek, fingers curled into my hair. His head tilted slightly, and his thumb brushed along my cheekbone.
My lips parted.
He leaned, slowly closer.
I closed my eyes.
His lips brushed against mine.