Page 53 of No Saint
I knew if I dropped out now, I’d forever be trapped in the minimum wage hamster wheel. It was the last thing I wanted to do. Or I could take his help…
“You can either help me help you,” he said, “or I’ll help you myself.”
As selfish as it felt, I wanted nothing more than to reach out and take the metaphorical hand he was offering. “Okay.” That one word felt binding somehow, as if it had initiated a subtle shift in the air between Wolf and me.
The smile that pulled at his lips was like the sun breaking through black storm clouds, and I instantly felt the weight lift from my shoulders. Wolf had always made it feel as if he’d hold up the entire world to keep it from crushing me. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed someone—no, just him. I’d had Cassie and Monroe, but Wolf was, well, Wolf. No matter how much I’d tried to be fine without him, he would always feel like my protector. My safe space, my person…
I swallowed around the lump in my throat, trying to keep it together. Squishy’s nose poked out of the comforter before he crawled out and plopped down in front of me. He licked a tear off my cheek, and for some reason, empathy from an animal was what sent me over the edge. “You’re supposed to be an asshole,” I cried at him.
“He is. He’s just a compassionate asshole.”
“Don’t be mean to him,” I sobbed. Over the dog.
On a chuckle, Wolf stroked him before pulling me against his hard chest. “It’ll be okay, Jade.” He pressed my cheek against the warm material of his shirt, and he placed a kiss on the top of my head. “I promise.”
That made me cry more. When Wolf made a promise, he kept it.
I’d forgotten how soothing and safe it felt to have his arms wrapped around me, and despite the tears, it was the closest I’d come to feeling happy in as long as I could remember. That terrified me.
When my tears had calmed a few minutes later, Wolf released me. “You know what we need?” he said, pushing up from the mattress. “Family Guy.”
I fought a smile. We used to watch that show all the time.
He grabbed his laptop from his desk, then came back to the bed, pulling up a Netflix account I was sure had been stolen—unless his name was now Bob.
The theme song came on, and he reclined back on the bed, pulling me with him.
I settled against his chest once more and pulled his scent deep into my lungs, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. In many ways, it was.
The rhythmic beat of his heart thrummed against my ear, trying to lull me to sleep. But I fought it, fearing this bubble of temporary happiness would burst the second I closed my eyes, like a magic spell that ran out at first light or something. I took a deep breath, trying to displace the knot of dread in my chest. His kindness would only make our entire situation hurt more in the morning. I knew how to love Wolf, and I’d learned how to hate himsothat I didn’t love him. But the middle ground? I didn’t know how to navigate that. How to take his help without falling for him.
The rumble of Wolf’s laughter beneath my cheek pulled me from my negative thoughts. I hadn’t heard him laugh since before we’d broken up. It was like being reminded of a song I used to love, one I’d forgotten about.
“I don’t get how Stewie can’t be your favorite,” he said.
I focused on the eloquently speaking baby and the talking dog on the screen. Yeah, when I thought about it, this show made no sense. But it was Wolf’s favorite.
“Bryan is an alcoholic, novelist dog.”
Wolf turned his head against the pillow, one of his dark brows inquisitively raised. “Ishe a novelist?”
“It’s the thought that counts, Wolf. Everyone wants to write a book, but do you know how many people finish one?”
“Nope…” The minty scent of his breath washed over my face, and my gaze flicked to his lips before I forced it back to his eyes.
When we were this close, it was hard not to fall into old habits, but that wasn’t what this was. He was simply a good person offering comfort to an old friend.
“Point is, he’s a tortured artist dog. Stewie is a psychopath baby.”
My fingers subconsciously flexed against his shirt, his chest warming my palm. “And that’s why I love Stewie. He’s an evil genius. He’d grow up to be a British world dictator.”
“He’s not British.”
I twisted to look at him. “What?”
“The Griffins are American.”
“Stewieis British. Which, granted, is weird. I’m sorry, how have you been watching this for like, ten years, and not realized this?”
