Page 79 of Thorns from the Fall

Not regret.

Disappointment over Roman leaving? Acceptance because it was good and it was final, and that’s more than I deserve anyway? Either way, it’s not regret.

The bed shifts, and Hale leans over to play with my hair. He’s gentle, and it means he knows now that this was self destruction. Hale has never been able to fully understand my depression or the stupid shit it makes me do, but he sees me, and it makes me want to cry.

I hope he leaves sooner rather than later. I just want to turn my brain back off and slip into unconsciousness once more. Even if it means cryptic nightmares that certainly have nothing to do with my vampire father I need to kill to find closure.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No.”

“Do you have whatever answers you need when it comes to him?”

Irritated, I sit up, wrapping the sheet around myself. My leg brushes against the bottle of lube, bumping it into my vibrator, and I’m grateful it’s under the blanket with me and not visible evidence of last night’s debauchery. “Doesn’t matter. What’s up? How did Last Drop go?”

“I mean, I didn’t kill anyone,” he says. He looks as if he’s done his own walk of shame. His hair is a tangled mess, and hiseyeliner is smudged. “Nico says he needs at least a week to make sure I’m okay to go, but I think he’s just saying that because he doesn’t want me to leave.” He looks out the window, not meeting my eyes. and I want to ask him about it. But I also want to not be naked and sticky and marinating in my own sexual self hatred. I table it for later.

“How much more practice do you think you need?” I ask, a little surprised he’s taken longer to master control than I did. I suppose he wasn’t born half-vampire, but still.

“I think tonight will be enough,” he says, starting to explain what he wants to work on, but I cut him off.

“We’ll leave in the morning then.”

He blinks, gives a shake of his head to recalibrate, and doesn’t ask for more information from me than he knows I’m willing to give. Hale is the best friend I’ve ever had.

“Are we going where he was spotted last?”

“There’s a pattern,” I say. “I only just realized it. I thought it was tied to me at first, but I’ve never been to Colorado. Cynthia lived there though before she met my Dad. He’s going to all the places she’s ever lived. I don’t think he believed me when I said she was dead, and he’s trying to find her.”

“So, where to?”

“She lived in San Diego for most of her childhood. We’ll go there and let Agnarr come to us.”

“Hell yeah. I love San Diego,” Hale responds, but his excitement dims when he sees the look I give him. “Sorry, yes, no sightseeing. No enjoying the lovely weather or the authentic Mexican food or all the human rights.”

I snort despite myself. “So, one last hoorah with Nico at Last Drop?” I ask, feeling like a bad friend for not prying about whatever is going on between them. But I can’t do it—not right now.

He nods. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Okay, now go away so I can shower or sleep or I don’t know, wallow in my post-life-altering-sex self degradation pit of despair.”

He stares for a minute, debating on venturing into the pit with me, but he must decide against it.

“I’ll text you,” he says, and I hope he forgets.

Ma petit kafard, I type into the translation tab of the search engine, certain it’s wrong but hoping the internet will fix it. And it does.

Ma petite cafarde. My little cockroach.

Well, that’s not very different from what he’s been calling me already. I guess there’s some possession in the phrase that isn’t there, but ultimately, it’s pretty similar. In French, it felt different.

When I toss my phone beside me and it slides off the bed, I don’t bother to get it. Instead, I pick up my useless gun instead. I open the tip-up barrel and close it. Over and over again. It’s something I can do with my hands, and it’s soothing in a strange way even without ammo.

I’m laying on the guest bed after my shower, unable to venture into the primary suite knowing what happened there, and all I can think about is Roman. After hours of staring at the crown molding, I can see the shape burned into my retinas when I close my eyes. Long, straight lines meet ceiling and burst against my eyelids. My hair has dried in a tangled mass, and I’ve been debating what to do this entire time. After last night, things changed. I’d laid it all bare, told Roman I never stopped loving him, and he’d told me he loved me too.

Well, he said loving me would kill him, but still.

And he left without a word anyway. I’m tempted to text him and call him an asshole, but that’s not fair. Despite all my flaws, Roman had loved me, even if it was limited. Even if he denied it in the cemetery, hurling barbed words to push me away. He gave me tenderness and affection, and all I gave him back was pain. To ask him to forgive me, to move past it? It’s too much.

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