Page 134 of Beyond the Lines
I shrug. “I’ve taken harder hits in hockey…”
“We need to talk.”
I sit beside her, leaving a small gap between us, because I want to give her space if she needs it. It’s a good sign for the future of us that she inches towards me, whether deliberate or not.
“Are you OK?” I ask softly. “I thought it best to let you know Mike was coming, but not come over myself, given how angry he was…”
“That was smart,” she smiles. “He might have started World War Three if you’d been with me when he arrived…”
“I’m sorry you had to face that alone,” I say, reaching out to put a hand on her leg. “I tried to text you and call you…”
“Didn’t see them.” She shrugs. “But I appreciate you trying, and I had Em with me the whole time…”
“And where have you been since?”
“Walking.” She stares at her hands. “Just… walking. A lot of walking. So much walking. Trying to clear my head.”
“And?” I ask, afraid of the answer.
She sighs heavily. “And Mike’s an asshole, but he’s still my brother.”
My stomach drops through the floor and keeps going, straight to the center of the earth where it can burn away in molten lava. Here it comes. Mike is her brother, and I’m just the guy who keeps her sneaking around campus and hiding their relationship.
“But that doesn’t mean you’re not important to me too,” she adds quickly, apparently noticing how my body just tensed. “That’s not what I meant.”
I exhale slowly. “Sorry. For a second there, I thought this was headed toward the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech.”
“God, no.” She wraps her fingers around mine, squeezing tight. “The opposite, actually. I’m pissed at Mike. Really, really pissed.”
“Because he punched me?” I touch my jaw gingerly with my free hand. “Not that I don’t appreciate the solidarity, but this isn’t that bad.”
“It’s not about that. Well, not just that.” She draws her legs up beneath her on the couch. “Do you know what he said to me?”
I shake my head, drinking in the details of her face like I’m dying of thirst. Her eyes are still red-rimmed, but there’s a fire in them now. In the back of my mind, a thought flashes that I’d like to draw her like this, but I force it down, to focus on the now.
“He told me I’d manufactured the whole Chris situation into some epic tragedy,” she says, voice trembling slightly. “That I fell apart completely, and he only helped me because my parents called him, freaking out because I wouldn’t stop crying.”
“Wait, what?”
“Yeah.” Her laugh is bitter and hollow. “He basically said my parents think I’m some fragile little flower who can’t handle a breakup, and he had to rescue poor pathetic Lea from her emotions. Can youfuckingbelieve he’d say that to me?”
My blood boils at the thought of Mike—or anyone—talking to her that way. “That’s bullshit.”
“And the worst part is,” she continues, “all this time I thought Mike was the only one in my family who understood me. Who didn’t think I was too sensitive or too emotional. And he thinks I’ll fall apart with you, too. Like it’s inevitable.”
“And you believe him?”
“No,” she says firmly. “I don’t. My whole family thinks I’m some broken doll, but I’m so tired of that narrative.”
I pull her closer, her knees pressing against my thigh. “Iknow one thing for sure—you’re the furthest thing from broken I’ve ever seen.”
“I don’t need rescuing,” she whispers.
“No, you don’t.” My thumb traces circles on her palm. “You’d have figured out how to handle Chris eventually, even if Mike hadn’t helped. You’d have gotten to Pine Barren. You’d have met me at that party. You’d have told me to go fuck myself when you found out I play hockey.”
That gets a small laugh out of her.
Progress.
