Page 71 of Bloom

“What’re you doing?”

It’s his turn to ignore me as he opens the driver’s side door, half inside before I catch up. “Where are you going?”

“Stay here,” he says, like I have the ability to go anywhere else. “I’ll take care of it, okay?”

“Take care of what?”

I get no answer other than the door shutting.

“Hunter.” I curl my fingers around the open window frame, relatively sure he won’t drive off with me clinging to the truck, and repeat, “Where are you going?”

His clenched jaw ticks. “Bishop’s.”

Bishop’s?Why the hell is he going back to—

It takes me a second longer than it should to put things together, long enough for the engine to rumble to life. “Oh my God.” Rising on my tiptoes, I reach inside the window and yank the keys from the ignition. “Stop. Tommy didn’t touch me.”

Hunter’s huff confirms he believes otherwise. “Who did?”

“No one,” I lie, and I’m not sure why. I could tell him it was my dad. Ishouldtell him. But I can’t. I don’t know why I can’t. I don’t know how I still have any loyalty towards a man who does nothing but hurt me, but I do.

He’s sick, sympathy, or maybe guilt, whispers in my ear.He can’t help it. It’s not his fault.

“I fell.” At least that’s mostly the truth. “I swear to God, I fell. I didn’t realize how much I’d drank and I got up too fast and I—”

“Fell,” he finishes for me, kissing his teeth. Relenting half of his tight grip on the steering wheel, he brushes his knuckles beneath my chin, gentle as anything. “That’s the story you’re going with?”

I swallow hard, the burgeoning lie tasting almost as bad as tequila. “That’s what happened.”

He doesn't believe me. Or at least he doesn’tcompletelybelieve me. He stares really hard at my chin, and I’m a littledesperate for him to stop, if only because my silly drunk brain is starting to see more than male chivalry behind his actions, to concoct some elaborate fairytale where his outrage is specific, where he’s mad becauseI’mhurt, not because he thinks some guy he doesn’t like laid hands on a girl he quietly tolerates.

Keeping his keys clutched in my fist, I open the door and wrap my fingers around his wrist, tugging gently. “I’ll come inside, okay? I’ll eat the freaking orange.”

Every inch of me he can see, Hunter scans, from the tips of my white-knuckled fingers to my hairline. He stares, and he sighs, and his jaw unclenches. “Tommy didn’t touch you?”

I shake my head, grateful to be honest about that, at least.

“At all?”

I frown. “No, Hunter.”

At all? What does that even mean?

Slowly but surely, the rest of that big body starts to relax. Hunter shakes off my grip only to resituate it, linking our fingers together as he gets out of his truck. “Okay.”

Of all the ways this night could’ve ended, not once did I picture myself sitting on Hunter's bed, hair damp from the shower I took in his bathroom, the stench of alcohol replaced with the woodsy scent of his body wash, one of his t-shirts swamping my body.

Yeah, not even the most imaginative depths of my mind could've conjured up this unlikely scenario.

Tracing the patchwork pattern of his brown comforter, I stare at a random spot on the wall, desperately trying to keep the steadily growing panic at bay. That shower was a mistake; the warm water was like a reality check, washing away the lingeringoblivion and making room for pesky things like emotions and thoughts and memories.

Memories.

I squeeze my eyes shut. If not for the physical evidence left behind, I could almost convince myself earlier didn’t happen. That my dad’s anger, his rage, was a terrible dream, the worst kind of nightmare. But the lingering sting of him yanking my hair, the fingerprint bruises that are barely noticeable yet burn like a brand, the throbbing ache in my joints as lurking fear holds me taut are all so very real. So very tangible.

So verywrong.

Tears prick my eyes, doubling in force as frustration brews because is this all I’m capable of?Crying?Is that my way of problem solving? I bury my face in my palms, digging the heel of them into my eyes as I swallow over the painful lump in my throat.

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