Page 72 of Bloom

It’s not fair. I don’t know what I did wrong. I’m a good person—I do crappy, silly things sometimes, but I’m a good person. I don’t know what I did to deserve this. I don’t get why hehatesme so much.

Lost in spiraling thoughts, I don’t realize I’m not alone until, gently but insistently, my hands are pulled away. Blinking rapidly, I try to smile at the serious face looming only inches from mine, try to shake Hunter off, but a firm,pissedorder makes me freeze. “Stop smilin’, Caroline.”

I jolt at the harsh words. My shaky hands fall to my lap as Hunter releases me. He crouches in front of me, smoothing his palms along the thick thighs straining against his jeans. “You don’t have to be so fuckin’ happy all the time.”

The attempted smile wiped clean off my face, I frown at my lap. “Just because you like to be miserable doesn’t mean everyone else has to be.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth I regret them. I hurry to take them back, but it’s too late.

“You think I’m miserable?”

I think he pretends to be. I think helikesto be. I think it’s easier to be the aloof, unapproachable version of himself. I can’t imagine how much easier my life would be if I was capable of that. If I didn’t care what people thought of me. If I didn’t care about being liked—about being loved.

That’s what I think, but IknowI used up all of my bravery, my liquid courage, so I remain silent.

Maybe Hunter wants an answer as little as I want to give him one, because he doesn’t press. He just sighs, forearms tense where they rest against his thighs, hands dangling off the ends of his bent knees, fingers just barely brushing my shins. “Why were you at Bishop's?”

I shrug.

A furrow appears between his brows, deep and unrelenting. “Caroline, what happened?”

“Nothing.”

His face calls bullshit as clearly his lips do. He sighs again as he stands, the hem of his shirt creeping upwards a couple of inches as he runs his hands through his hair, flashing me a glimpse of lower stomach, a tarnished gold belt buckle, the dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans before I hastily avert my gaze elsewhere. Somewhere safer. Like the blunt nails on the large hands that settle on broad hips.

“I’m tired, Caroline. Got work in a few hours.”

Flushing, I scramble to my feet, an apology on the tip of my tongue as I start towards the sofa in the main room—my bed, I’ve decided, since God knows Hunter won’t fit on the thing.

Fingers encircling my bicep stall me. “I don’t wanna spend all night begging you to talk to me. But I will.” Turning me toface him, Hunter stoops slightly, so damn serious as he repeats, “Why were you at Bishop’s?”

I don’t miss how his eyes flick to my chin, to the bruises I can’t believe he even noticed when I had to squint to see them in the mirror. A voice in the back of my head screams at me to be careful. To think before I speak. Cautions me that if I mention my dad, Hunter might put two and two together. Hell, he already jumped to his own conclusions without my help, ready to do God knows what to Tommy without a word leaving my lips.

Tomorrow, when I’m clear-headed and sober and have the spare mental capacity, I’m sure I’ll think about that. Foolishly obsess over it. Romanticize the whole thing as I play it on repeat in my head.

Now, though, I focus on maintaining a carefully blank expression as I offer all I’m willing to admit, “I was upset.”

It’s not meant as an accusation, but I think he takes it that way. If I wasn’t so close, I’d never catch the split second his face falls before he fixes it, sliding that perfect mask of indifference into place. I’d never see the flash of regret that preceded it. I’d take the absence of an apology, the lack of any acknowledgement at all, really, to heart.

But I do see it. And so, the silence that follows me out of his bedroom and rings in my ears as I curl up on the couch is a little less cutting.

21

The sleepy woman curled up in his sheets holds his attention with an iron grip.

He considers it a small miracle he’s only ten minutes late to work.

Hours,minutes, or maybe only seconds after I fall asleep, a gentle jostling wakes me up again.

Groggy and confused, I squint through bleary eyes at the wide chest cradling me close, the bulky arms cocooning me. I try to move, to stretch out limbs so stiff from being curled up in a tight, tense ball for who knows how long, but a quiet shushing stills me.

“Sorry.” The word brushes against my temple, so close I can almost feel the lips whispering it. “Go back to sleep,” I hear too, not quite registering the meaning, not when there are far more important things to worry about. Like warm sheets and a downy comforter and a nest of plump pillows, and a light touch sweeping across my cheekbone, behind my ear.

Something else is said, I think. Something sweet. Soft and gentle like everything else about this moment. I don’t catch the words, but I latch onto them anyways, hugging them close the same way I hug a pillow to my chest.

I must be dreaming, I decide as a puff of air warms my brow. As someone tucks me beneath the covers. As more words are whispered against my skin, an inexplicably regretful promise to be back later that sings through my head like a lullaby as sleep pulls me back under.

Thin curtains do nothing to stem the assault of bright, morning light as the marching band parading around in my head drags me to consciousness. Rolling onto my stomach with a groan, I bury my face in the couch cushion that somehow got comfier overnight, palms pressed to my temples like that might stem their throbbing.

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