Page 14 of Cruel When He Smiles
“I’m just tired.”
She hums that knowing therapist hum. The one she used on clients, then used on me. I know it because I’ve studied it. Learned how to replicate it. Learned how tofake normalthe way she taught me—even if I didn’t realize what she was doing until way too late.
“I read an article the other day,” she says lightly, like we’re just chatting. “It was about trauma bonding. About how sometimes we confuse intensity with connection. Isn’t that fascinating?”
I don’t answer, and she keeps going, soft, sweet.Dangerous.“Sometimes, people lash out when they’re scared. Sometimes, they get close to the wrong people just to feel something. But that never ends well, does it, sweetheart?”
“I should go,” I say. “I’ve got training.”
“Nathaniel,” her voice is still soft, but it sharpens at the edges, gets firmer—less mother, more therapist. More controlling. “Don’t run away from me again.”
My vision pulses, a dull ache pressing behind my eyes. I blink hard and force a laugh. “Relax, it’s just training.”
“I worry about you.”
No, you don’t.You worry aboutlosingme. About not being able to sink your teeth in anymore. About the narrative spinning out of your hands.
I make my voice light, playful even. A tone she’s trained me to use when I want to avoid a fight. “I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Nathaniel—”
But I hang up before she can finish.
The second the line goes dead, I feel the wave of nausea, the tremble in my fingers, the buzz in my ears. I pocket the phone and force myself to move again, but everything’s fucked now. The cold doesn’t help. The walk back to my car doesn’t help. I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s skin—peeled off layers just to survive that call, and now I’m raw underneath.
When I reach my car, I yank the door open too hard, then slam it shut behind me. My hands grip the steering wheel as I sit there, trying to breathe, trying to pull myself back together.
I don’t cry or scream. I just sit in the silence and feel the weight of her settle into my chest like it always does. It’s not supposed to hit this hard anymore. She’s been gone for years. I’ve built my life without her. I’ve made myself into something she can’t touch.
But one phone call and I’m that kid again—trying to please her, trying to argue with her, and trying to escape her all at the same time. I fucking hate it. I hate that she still gets to me. Hate that I can still hear her voice in my head saying my name with that poison-sweet tone.
Hate that I can’t even bring myself to change my number.
I shove the keys in the ignition and gun the engine, peeling out of the lot like speed will shake her off me.
By the time I pull up in front of the frat, my hands are still trembling. The house is the same as always—loud music, laughter spilling through the windows, someone throwing a football on the lawn. Normal. Safe. Controlled chaos. My world.
I slam the car door behind me and stalk toward the house.
Sage is on the porch, drink in hand, laughing at something one of our brothers just said. He sees me coming, and his smile fades immediately. “Nate—?”
I shake my head. “Not now.”
He doesn’t push, but he tosses his drink aside and follows me in, footsteps silent. My anchor. I don’t say anything until we’re upstairs in my room and the door is shut. Even then, I don’t look at him. I just lean back against the wall, fists clenched at my sides, breathing like I’ve just run miles.
“I got a call,” I say, and my voice cracks.
Sage doesn’t ask who. He doesn’t need to. Instead, he walks over and sinks down onto the bed, nodding once. “Tequila or silence?”
My throat tightens. “Both.”
Nate
Thenextmorning,Ifeel like shit.
Sleep never really showed up and just circled the drain. I lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. My body’s still humming with leftover adrenaline, nerves twitching under skin that doesn’t feel like mine.
I don’t remember falling asleep. But I remember waking up before the alarm with my body already halfway dressed before my brain caught up.
