Page 79 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
News flash: he does.
His body is completely turned toward me, his gaze focused on my face like he’s trying to search for answers in a twitch or a micro expression. The breeze doesn’t cease its onslaught on his hair, blowing back those front curls and turning the tip of his nose scarlet. “What happened in there?” he inquires, nearly losing his voice to the raging wind.
I’m sitting with my back to the current, but he chose to sit with his face to it and endure the worst of it, all so I don’t have to. I make my first sound decision of the day and hand him the crinkled pamphlet, because there’s no way he’ll be able to hear me.
He takes it from me with a curious look, and I watch in silence as he flips through the pages, his eyes examining the material diligently, searching for the reason why I upchucked in front of, like, twenty people.
When he finishes skimming the pamphlet, he tilts his head. “I don’t understand. This…this seems like a good thing, right?”
I turtle into my jacket, staring down at my sleeve-covered hands, using my thumbnail to pick at the blue, fraying hems. “I can’t afford it, Gage,” I whisper, too ashamed to bring this reality into existence, too frustrated that I don’t even have four thousand dollars to spare on my dying mother. No money saved up. No nothing. There’s a part of me that wishes he didn’t hear, but he did. Over the howling winds, over the quietness of my voice, over the bustling chatter of the people around us.
His face drops. “Cali…”
“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help my mom; I don’t know how to help Teague. I’m his legal guardian, sure, but I hardly act like it. I’ve failed both of them. I’m not…I’m not strong enough to hold this family together,” I confess, every terrible reminder of the ways I’ve let them down hijacking my brain, spitting derision and scorn like shrapnel against my bleeding heart.
I want to cry. Fuck, I want tofeelsomething. Anything. But my body’s been feeling for so long that there’s nothing left for me to feel.
“Please tell me you know that’s not true,” Gage says, tearing down the invisible wall I’ve erected between us and enveloping me in his warm arms. “It’s not true.”
I don’t embrace him back. I’m stiff and cold and so goddamn empty that I can’t feel my own heart beating anymore. “It is true.”
“No, it’s not.”
I push him away from me. “It is, Gage.”
Gage doesn’t snap back at me. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even move, really. I have no idea what his next move is, and the sight of his composure isn’t an accelerant to my rage—it’s the complete opposite.
I’m so tired. I’m so tired of everything. I’m so tired of carrying all this weight by myself. I’m so tired of trying to do everything on my own. And the more I hang on to this self-loathing and rage…the more I begin to question if it’s even worth it anymore. I don’t want to live my entire life punishing myself. I don’t know how to save myself.
The final moisture I’ve been waiting for—the preemptive droplets of rain before a torrential storm—wells in my eyes, and the rest of the world stills around me, freezing this exact moment in time where the only medium is the broken cradle song of my heart. I look down at my hands, right where my nails continue puncturing old wounds.
I forget that Gage is right beside me, and I’m only reminded when his voice breaks through the dense fog.
“I want to pay for everything,” he says quietly.
I level him with an incredulous look. “What?”
“I want to pay for your mother’s care,” he repeats, scooting closer to me, refusing to sever our eye contact even for a second. He’s laying his heart out on his sleeve, offering it to the least deserving person in the world, and ignoring the very real possibility that I may be the one to crush it between my hands.
My body pleads with him not to make such a huge mistake, and this blindsided pit in my now-empty gut pulses with a mind of its own. It’s formidable as it grows before my very eyes, latching onto my stomach lining like a parasite.
“Stop. I can’t take any more of your money, Gage. You’ve already given me too much.”
“I want to, Calista. I want to help you and Teague and your moth?—”
“Stop,” I hiss, picking myself up off the bench and attempting to storm as far away from this conversation as humanly possible.
But I was stupid to think I’d get very far before Gage grabs my wrist and forces me to look at him.
“Why are you fighting me on this?” he growls, that dangerously low bravado of his flirting along a wrathful edge.
Something visceral snaps inside me, like the inexorable rip of a rubber band, and anger power-blasts me from all sides, tensing every muscle and gearing my brain into hyperdrive. “You’re always fixing my problems for me. You’re always going out of your way to make my life easier, and I’m constantly taking advantage of your generosity.”
“You’re not.”
A frown clips my lips. “I am.”
Gage’s brazenly indignant attitude vanishes, and the inflation in his tone softens to a melody like that of svelte fingers plucking a harp’s string. “Hey,” he croons. “You can’t take advantage of something I offer willingly. Plus, it’s my money. I can dowhatever I want with it. And I’mchoosingto do this for you.” He’s annoyingly calm as he always is in high-stress situations, still looking at me like I’ve hung the fucking moon and stars for him when in reality, I’ve showered his world in nothing but eternal darkness.
