Page 134 of Burn

Jacey: K. Thanks for letting me know.

Me: You’re welcome.

I know her relationship with Evan, and I want to tell her how sorry I am, but I don’t.

Setting Caleb’s phone back down on the floor, I’m not sure what to do next, so I find my place in the hallway again. It’s safer out there because I do not want to be puked on again.

Scarlet comes home about an hour later, and by the lack of lighting, she trips over me on the way to her bedroom.

After face-planting, she looks back at me with her angry eyes as she peels herself from the floor. “Mila, what are you doing?”

I use the wall to sit up and cross my legs while keeping my eyes on Caleb. “Making sure he doesn’t die.”

She peeks around the corner into the bathroom to see Caleb half-naked and sprawled out on the bathroom floor like he’s dead. He’s even in one of those really weird crime scene positions that if you were to draw a line around his body, it’d be used on CSI.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Brother died.”

She gasps. “Oh shit. Really?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck.”

“I know.”

I hate this. I hate that I can’t take away his pain.

I WATCH HIM all night, refusing to sleep because I’m afraid he’s going to choke on his vomit and die, and I can’t have that happening.

“You’re still here,” he says, trying to sit up but failing, his voice worse. He manages to push himself against the tub and uses it for support.

His words “You’re still here,” make me sad, because despite whatever it is we were, I could never leave this man, especially when he needs me the most.

“Where else would I be?” I ask and then give a small grin. “This is kinda of where I live.”

He runs his hands through his hair. “With someone who’s not fucked up,” he mumbles, and I know in a way, that’s a hit at me.

“What if I like fucked up?”

Caleb’s brow pulls together, scanning my face. “That’s what scares me.”

I stare at him, wanting the truth. We haven’t spoken since that night in the hotel. Then he comes here after his brother dies, fucks me, pukes on me and then passes out.

Where does all this leave us?

“Why’d you come here?”

“I was drunk,” he replies casually. His callous reply hurts, but I remain silent.

He stares at me for the longest time, a battle of silent communication, one I don’t win. I don’t say anything. I don’t know what I want to hear. Maybe that he cares, that he came here for me, but I know it’d be a lie even if he did say it.

“What? Isn’t that what you want to hear?” he asks, moving from his place on the floor and reaching for his shirt, swaying. “Does it make you feel better?”

“No, it doesn’t,” I reply, voice shaking.

“Well, then, you have your answer.”

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