Page 45 of Pocketful of Shame

"Yeah?"

"You can come in here –" My voice cracked and I wet my lips before continuing, "I really need to get clean and I need some help."

"Sure thing." The door swung open again, revealing a disheveled and sleepy looking Presley.

"Where'd you go?"

"Pocketful."

"Why?"

"To find the journal."

"And did you find it?"

"Not as of yet, but I will." Standing in nothing but a pair of Halloween themed boxer shorts, he scratched his bare chest and eyed me with a sympathetic expression. "So, who'd you sneak in here to call?"

"My dad," I replied, my one good knee bopping restlessly while I tugged on the Velcro straps of the boot. Tearing the straps free, I tossed the boot away and stared down at my discolored and recently stitched knee and then my puffy ankle.

"Whoa, should you be taking that thing off?"

"Don’t know," I replied honestly, dragging Sketch's hoodie over my head. "Don’t really care. I just need a shower that doesn’t consist of washing in the sink."

"Jesus Christ, Romi!" Padding into the bathroom, Presley trailed his fingers down my spine. "Did Sketch feed you at all?" His eyes narrowed. "You look like you've lost ten pounds."

"He did," I admitted. "I'm just…I can't eat."

"Well hell, no wonder you look so weak," he grumbled. Disappearing into the bedroom, he returned a moment later with a packet of M&M's. "Here you go, girl, and don’t even think about telling me you're not hungry." Popping the bag open, he thrust it into my hands. "You need to get some sugar into you."

I gave him a small smile before pouring a few of the candies into my hand and popping them into my mouth, relishing in the chocolatey goodness when it hit my taste buds.

"So." Lowering himself to the floor, he leaned against the tub and hooked his arms around his knees. "Would it be fair for me to assume that this impromptu call to your dad – not to mention Sketch passed out in the backseat of his truck with an empty bottle of JD – is because he finally told you about your breakup?"

"He slept in his truck?" I croaked out.

Pres nodded. "Saw him from the window."

"Oh."

"Ya'll had a fight? Over the breakup?"

Swallowing down a mouthful of chocolate, I nodded slowly.

Pres watched me carefully. "And I'm guessing the reason you avoided all conversation with me last night is because it didn’t end well?"

Appetite gone, I set the half-eaten packet down and offered him another nod, this time with a sniffle.

"Ah hell," Pres groaned. "Okay, baby girl." Closing the space between us, he wrapped me up in his arms. "Tell me everything."

"I don’t even know where to start, it's so damn screwed up," I sniffled, burying my face in his neck, crying hard and ugly. "He hates me."

"Sketch hates everyone," he said with a sigh. "Everyone in the whole entire world except –" pausing, he leaned back and tapped my nose, "for Romi Dillon."

"That's not true anymore."

"It's about the truest thing I know," he argued. "Even when he thinks he hates you, he doesn’t. He can't. It's physiologically impossible for that boy to do anything but adore your skinny ass. It's been ingrained in him since he was five years old." Smiling softly, he added, "Tarzan loves Jane. Sketch loves Romi."

"You don't understand," I whispered brokenly. "You didn’t see the way he looked at me last night. Like I'd… stabbed him through the heartandthe back."

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