Page 42 of Unstable

I RETURN TO THE couch and he follows me, sitting close enough that the anxiousness rolling off him in waves is palpable, but far enough away that I don’t feel smothered.

“Nice pajamas,” I start with something light and teasing, hanging on to my snicker. “You can take off your boots if you want and get comfortable. They look ridiculous with your, outfit, anyway.”

He doesn’t hesitate in pulling them off and setting them to the side then turns his body into me. He doesn’t talk, or pressure me to, with a persuasive expression or air of impatience. Rather, he throws an arm over the back of the couch and waits patiently, as though he’d be content to do so forever.

“You’re gonna think I’m crazy,” I finally whisper.

“Hey, look at me,” his voice is gently stern and I find myself doing as he says. “I do not think you’re crazy, and I never will. You need to stop thinking that about yourself and quit saying it too, or I’ll make good on my threat to tan your sweet ass.” He grins like he’s kidding, but his eyes sparkle…with, I’m guessing, thoughts of the latter and its appeal to him.

“That’s Hadley’s diary,” I point to it on the table, then gasp and cover my mouth with my hand.

I said her name, again, in front of someone.

He reaches over and gently pulls my hand down. “It’s okay. Once again, sky didn’t fall, did it, Henny Penny? That was her name and you loved her. You can say it out loud. You should say it out loud, anytime you want. Honor her, remember her, don’t hide her away.”

I shake my head and whisper it again, just to be sure I can do it on purpose without suffering gut wrenching pain. “Hadley.”

“That’s my girl.” He gives my hand a gentle squeeze, but I pull it away and regain my train of thought. Which I have trouble doing when he’s touching me.

“I read some of it, her diary. She told me that I could in a dream.” I hone in on him scrupulously, waiting for an eye twitch, jaw tick, anything to confirm he in fact thinks I’ve lost my mind.

Nothing. The same stoic expression of calm, charismatic understanding he always tries to wear for me…unless we’re arguing of course. And even in those times, he usually sports his signature smirk, enjoying getting me riled up every bit as much as I do him.

“Did you hear me?” I raise my voice. “I snooped through my sister’s most private thoughts because I actually believe she told me I could in a fucking dream!”

“Heard ya,” he keeps the same easy smile and tone, “the first time. So quit your yelling. You know the night my dad had his heart attack? I woke up out of a dead sleep and ran to check on him. Something, don’t know what, told me, loud enough to wake me, that I should. Doctors say my quick action probably saved his life. So if you’re waiting on me to not understand things we can’t see or intuition, you’re gonna be waiting a while, Darlin’.”

I hide my face in my hands and shake my head. “You’re infuriating,” I mumble, muffled.

“Why, because I believe you? Shame on me. And, right back atcha’, woman. So, moving on. You read her diary. What’d it say? I’m assuming that’s what you really wanted to talk to me about?”

I raise my head and give him a look of exasperation, which he contradicts with a relaxed curl of his mouth.

Fine, he wants to play hardball? I’ll come out swinging for the fence.

“You and Hadley were at a party once. You beat someone up. Who was it?” My eyes narrow and harden, ready for a confrontation.

“Merrick,” he answers easily, unapologetically. “But I think you already knew the answer.”

Okay, so no confrontation…but rather honest cooperation. Was not expecting that.

“Exactly how many times did you beat up my boyfriend?”

“Hmm,” he rubs his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “I’d say less than ten, but more than five. Two times were after you were…gone,” his tone plummets, “so that wasn’t beating up your boyfriend. Just giving a douchebag a small dose of what he deserved. Hope you’re not looking for me to be sorry, ‘cause I’m not.”

“Jesus, Keaton! You can’t just go around wailing on people.”

“I don’t. Not people, anyway. Only him.” He has the audacity to seem proudly gratified with his reasoning and complete lack of remorse.

I run my hands through my hair; he sincerely wears me out. Yet part of me envies him—right or wrong, or somewhere in between—he owns his actions and makes no excuses for his decisions.

“So that night, the party, why’d you beat him up then?” I have to hear it—one more piece of closure to a suspicion that has long plagued me.

“Diary didn't tell you?” Ah, his first show of discomfort—he shifts in his seat.

“Nope, she didn’t see what all happened. Only caught you storming out of the woods with busted knuckles and a bloody shirt. She did tell me to ask you about it though, back when it happened.”

His eyes brew with troubled curiosity when they focus in on mine and his voice comes out heavy. “Why didn’t you?”

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