Page 126 of Cerulean Truth
The guilt nearly consumed me whenever the images of that night popped back into my mind.
What else could I say?
Sorry I’ve been such a distant ass these last few weeks and made you feel like you were all alone in the world?
Sorry I ripped you away from a world where you felt safe and cared for?
None of those, however true, would help.
I had nothing to say, nothing to give, except for the thing every instinct in my body screamed at me to do.
Opening my eyes again, I stepped through the door into the living room. I approached her softly and slid in behind her on the couch.
Pulling my arms around her, I could feel how rigid her entire body had gone. Her cries made her heave and gasp for oxygen, and with every inhale, I pulled her in closer.
And so I held her like that, stiff as an ox, while she cried in my arms for the horrible crimes committed against her.
No idea how long we sat like that before her body relaxed into mine, but when it finally did, I pulled her into my chest, where her cries returned to smaller sobs.
Where her sobs went quiet but didn’t entirely disappear.
Until she fell asleep.
I laid her softly on the couch, careful not to wake her, and covered her with the blanket that had been resting on the arm.
I brushed a few hairs out of her face, sticky from her tears, and I smiled as she started to snore softly.
This girl. Woman.
The bubble had been lifted somewhere during the time we were asleep, but I was still reluctant to let her out of my sight. I quickly translated a smaller chair across the room and sat there the rest of the night, watching her sleep, just as I’d done the night of her abduction.
That was the only time I ever knew her crying.
After I portaledEmma back into her room the next morning, I located Jackson quickly, eating breakfast at the Cube. I was feeling an urgent need to talk about Emma and whatever conversation he’d had with her about me.
"What the hell did you tell Emma about me?" were the first words out of my mouth when I sat down at his table.
If I'd expected him to pale or exhibit any hint of shame or guilt, I'd be sorely disappointed. I knew my friend well—he only ever executed actions he deemed just or justified.
"Not that much, since you'd opened up to her quite a lot before I did," he remarked, nonchalant, taking another bite of his croissant.
I scowled. "You told her about my past."
"Yes, I did."
"That shit was not yours to share," I grunted, slamming the French pastry out of his hand.
"On the contrary, James, that 'shit' was absolutely mine to share. Or did you forget one of your earlier incidents?" he replied dryly, translating himself another breakfast roll.
I swallowed. I hadn't forgotten.
"I've told you many times how—" I began, but he cut me off.
"I'm not interested in another heartfelt apology. I know very well how you feel about all that. And I know you've changed. Or at least, your translation has changed. All I did in telling her was make her aware of an issue you know has to be dealt with."
"Why?" I demanded.
"You know why," Jackson replied sharply, as he finally put down his food. "I laid it all out for you yesterday after you knocked out Enzo. And if you hadn't been so stubborn and actually acknowledged your issues, I wouldn't have felt the need to talk to Emma. But you left me with no choice when you refused to admit your lack of control."
