Page 164 of Mess With Me

“Is he going to wake up?” Sasha asks me, her voice barely a whisper.

“Yes,” I say confidently. I stand up and pull her against my chest, cradling her head against my heart.

He has to.

I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince. Everything I’ve been running through my head all night circles round again. Guilt at not getting to Sasha in time. Chester saving the day.

Chester being so sick and none of us knowing it, not even him, and now it’s too late to do anything about it.

My eyes are wet when I pull away from her. I knuckle the tears away and lower myself back down in the chair. “Jesus. I don’t remember the last time I cried.”

Sasha takes my hand. It looks huge and brutish in hers. And I notice the polish on a few of her nails is chipped.

Last night, she told me how she got out of the ties. That was after I ran to her faster than I’d ever run to anything or one in my life. I tore through that brush, my heart pounding, Sasha’s name the only word I knew. She was safe. Christ Almighty, after all of it, she was somehow okay. I picked her up and held her so tight she had to tap my cheek so I’d let her breathe. She kissed me then, with a tenderness I didn’t deserve.

Right. That was the last time I cried.

“Fuck,” I mutter, shouldering the last of the wetness away. I reach into the drawer beside her bed.

Sasha’s eyebrows go up when she sees what I pull out. “How’d you pick such a close shade?”

“How can you tell it’s not the right one?” I hold the little bottle of nail polish up against her nails.

“That’s a compliment! It’s very close.”

“I asked my sisters,” I say to the question still on her face. “Cass told me it wasn’t going to match, that you did jelly polish or something, but I can try it anyway.” I shake the bottle.

Sasha rolls her lips between her teeth and nods, her cheeks still wet. “How’d you know to shake it like that?”

I unscrew the top. “I’m assuming it’s the same configuration as most paints and solvents.”

Sasha closes her eyes, nodding, and I can tell she’s trying not to laugh. But maybe that’s exactly what she needs right now.

“Do you want a touch-up or not?”

“Yes,” she says. “Sorry.”

I wedge the bottle in my palm and take hold one of her delicate fingers. One by one, I stroke the color over her nails, doing a pretty fucking good job if you ask me. I’m good with precision tasks. But I’m a little nervous, so I flub up her pinkie, getting the tiniest blob on the tip of her finger.

“Fuck.”

“It’s fine,” she whispers, using her opposite thumb to scrape it off. “Too bad you don’t have your goggles.”

I grumble. “They’re notgoggles.”

Now she snort-laughs, and I have to shush her. “It’s too early to be snorting.”

But I feel the smile creeping on my own lips. I guess I was right—it feels good to grasp at whatever happiness we can find right now.

Finished, I blow on each of the nails I painted. Cass was right. It’s not an exact match. But it’ll have to do.

“You done?” she asks softly after I stop blowing. I haven’t let her hands go.

“No.” I glance at the ring on her fingers, then meet her eyes. “Sasha, I want to get married for real. I mean, I want to stay married. I want you to be my wife.”

I cringe at how fast the words come out.

But Sasha’s eyes well up. “Griffin—”

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