Page 57 of Chaos

He waits for my stiff permission before circling around me and gently peels my shirt away, guiding the flannel down my arms to expose my back. He hisses between his teeth. “Gonna have a hell of a bruise, princess.”

I know. I can feel it brewing, a dull, hot throb between my shoulder blades.

Finn moves away. I hear a drawer opening and I know what he’s grabbing even before it floats in my line of sight, a small bottle sitting in the palm of his hand. “Can I put some of this on?”

I don’t know what it is, if it’s his voice or my shaky state of mind or if I just really am in that much pain, but I nod, even though I dread the brush of his fingers against my skin. When it happens, I wince; partly because it hurts, mostly because I don’t like being touched at the best of times, but when I’m upset, it’s borderline unbearable. It makes my skin crawl, it makes me want to cry even more than I already do.

Finn doesn’t touch me for any longer than is necessary. When he’s done, he tugs my shirt back up before loosely cupping my biceps over the material. He says my name, all fucking sombre, and for some reason, that’s what gets me. That’s what has the first tear breaking free.

It tracks a lonely path down my cheek, burning my lip where I bit too hard. “I didn’t mean to.”

A harsh breath brushes the crown of my head. “I know.”

My voice cracks. “I keep messing up.”

Finn doesn’t say anything. What can he say? It’s not like he can deny it. I’m a disaster. A walking, barely living disaster.

“I would never—” I sniff. “I love that kid, Finn.”

“I know you do.” The tips of his boots nudge the heels of mine. What I think must be his chin tickles the top of my head, a barely tangible pressure. I know it’s his chest at my back, rising and falling so steadily compared to my erratic, short breaths. For longer than my frazzled mind can keep track of, he stays there, not saying anything, not quite hugging me, but just… there. Existing. Waiting until I—consciously or otherwise, I’m not sure—slow my breathing to match his. “I’m gonna take you to the ER, okay?”

When I start to argue, he repeats himself, except this time, he doesn’t ask. “I’m taking you to the ER. You need to get checked out.”

I don’t want to. I don’t care to. I… “I don’t wanna go back out there.”

I feel his sharp inhale as much as I hear it. Just like I feel him let it go, feel it brush the back of my neck—feel his forehead, I think, drop to my crown for a single, fleeting second.

“Okay.” That loose grip on my upper arms tightens briefly, squeezing before releasing. “I’ll bring my truck around back.”

An hour after I drop my ass into an uncomfortable plastic chair, my phone vibrates for approximately the eight-hundredth time, and the matching chair to my left creaks. “You should answer that.”

With a huffy grunt and a touch more vigor than necessary, I turn my phone off instead. The last thing I need right now is some more verbal spanking. Slouching with my arms crossed over my chest, I nibble on my thumbnail and read the same sign on hand-washing like I didn’t memorize the thing in the first five minutes here. “You don’t have to wait with me.”

A jean-clad knee nudges my own. “If I leave, you’ll be about two seconds behind me, right?”

I kiss my teeth, but I can hardly be insulted when he’s right. Icanstill snark, “You gonna come in with me too? Hold my hand?”

“Yes,” comes Finn’s dry reply, his face deadpan when I peer at him from beneath the brim of the baseball cap he silently handed me before we got out of the car—a shield for my red-rimmed eyes. “Then I can make sure you don’t just tell the doctor you’re fine.”

I don’t even have it in me to shoot him a nasty look. I am, after all, decidedlynotfine, but it’s not in the way Finn thinks. It has nothing to do with the way my body is aching.

I want a drink. I want a drink so badly, I can barely breathe. I can’t think about anything else. If Finn wasn’t so resolute about waiting with me, I would be on my way to the nearest bar, or already in one.

For the first time in a long time—or maybe this is just the first time I can admit it—I feel like an alcoholic. Like someone whohas a problem. Like someone who needs to be at a meeting more than an emergency room.

Smoothing my palms down my thighs, I tap my fingers against my knees a few times before lacing them together. I should find one. A meeting. I’ve fucked up enough already today; I can make one good decision. But…

But. I don’t want to. It’s as simple as that.

Closing my eyes, I let my head fall back against the wall behind me and start to recite the serenity prayer in my head.

I’m halfway through a second round when a low murmur and something brushing my thigh—a pinky finger, I realize when I crack open an eye—interrupts me. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

My head lolls to one side, towards the big body mimicking my position, angled a little in my direction. “Do what?”

“Your running mount superhero trick.”

Superhero. Ha. Pretty sure right now, I’m the supervillain, if anything. “I went through a trick-riding phase.”

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