Page 124 of Unapologetic Obsession
My heart started thudding. I have had crushes on boys before, but nothing like this. At that moment, it seemed like something monumental had happened. My entire life had changed, and it would never be the same again.
He grunted, “You’re trouble, Little One. You decided not to jump and still almost took both of us out.”
He straightened me. We sat cross-legged on the ground as he picked up his abandoned shoes and socks and started putting them on.
“Want to tell me now why you were jumping off a roof?” he asked.
Suddenly feeling extremely embarrassed, I ducked my head. “My parents.”
“What about them?”
Instead of pressuring me to respond immediately, he waited patiently until I could form the words. “They want me to get surgery. Well, they want me to get more surgery.”
“Surgery for what?”
I normally wouldn’t let anyone see, but something about his dull eyes told me he wouldn’t judge. Slowly, I lifted the hem of my hoodie to show him the scars on my abdomen. One of the nurses almost threw up when she saw them. They had healed a little since then, but they were still grotesque.
He didn’t flinch. There was no pity in his eyes, either. He didn’t even ask how I got them; he merely inspected them. “The stitches are clean,” he declared. “No infections. You should be in the clear. Why do you need more surgery?”
I hung my head. “My parents think they’re ugly.”
“They want you to get cosmetic surgery?” he guessed.
I nodded.
“Surgery for cosmetic reasons would cause more harm than good. You might get an infection. Possibly several. It’d be stupid to do it.”
He was just a teenager but spoke like an adult with complete authority.
“I don’t have a choice. My mom scheduled the surgery?—”
“Do you know what medical emancipation is?”
I shook my head.
“Go to the bottom floor of the hospital. Ask them to assign you a social worker and tell them your parents aren’t acting in your best interest. They’ll want to speak to your doctor, who’ll make the same assessment as I just did—superficial surgery is risky and unnecessary. If they still push you, convince thesocial worker to get you medically emancipated from your parents.”
I tried to keep up with everything he was saying, but it was a lot of information. “Medically emancipated.” I repeated the words so I’d remember.
He nodded, the corner of his mouth barely twitching with something that might have been pride. It was impossible to tell.
My gaze moved over his face. His dirty-blond hair was wild from the wind, ice-blue eyes glittering in the afternoon sun. His cheekbones made his face look carved, and if not for the perpetual wrinkle between his brows, he’d be the kind of boy you’d see on magazine covers.
I was aware of a strange heat crawling up my neck. “Thank you for helping me. I think I’ve seen you around before. What’s your name?”
He regarded me for a moment, his eyes narrowing as if his name carried all the weight in the world. At long last, he said, “Damon Maxwell.”
“Why can’t you remember me, Little One?”
My eyes, wide and raw, tracked the movement of his lips, but the words that spilled out might as well have been in another language.
I should have known. Sweet old Damon would have never asked me to threaten my parents with emancipation. Sophie’s words from the Alumni Fundraiser slammed into me like a brick hurled through glass. After hearing his mother call him evil so many times, Caden had started believing it himself.
“He donated money but signed it under Damon’s name. He has been doing this since we were kids. Whenever he does something nice, he credits Damon for it.”
Professor Maxwell had credited his brother with saving my life, and when we met again, he thought I had forgotten the whole incident.
My heart was about to implode. I couldn’t breathe. I squeezed my eyes shut, as if a lack of vision would grant me a reprieve. I felt an ache behind my sternum, the warning signs of an oncoming panic attack. My heart was about to implode, it constricted so tightly that I could practically hear the cartilage groan. My breaths came out in short, sharp staccatos, as if each inhalation had to be force-filtered through a sieve of disbelief.
