Page 125 of The Crowned Garza
Saint, looking utterly devastated, just stares at me, a deep frown between his brows. “Regina...?”
The word is a question. He’s as confused as I am and needs answers.
But I have none. When I try to speak, all that comes out are gasps and hiccups.
Saint does up his pants and belt before he steps in and wraps his arms around me, pulling me to his chest.
He feels so good. Smells so good. Feels so warm. So…safe.
And it pisses me off.
“No,” I hiss, shoving him away with all the strength I can muster.
“Tillie, I—” He shakes his head. “Talkto me.”
“Just leave.”
“What? I’m not leaving you like this.”
I feel so dumb. I don’t even know why I’m crying. What time of the month is it? Is my period due? How mortifying. Not even when I was a hormonal teenager did I ever have a breakdown like this. Do we grow softer the older we get? Because I feel so,sosoft right now. I need a hug. From my best friend. But she’s too busy hugging my brother these days.
I’ve lost her, too.
Saint tries to hug me again—almost as if he can sense my desperate need for one—but I snatch up the knife and swipe at him. “I saidgo! Leave me alone. Just piss off!”
Hands up, he backs off. “Is that really what you want? Will that make you...happy?”
“Yes,Guy. Why didn’t you listen to me earlier?” Sniffling, I wipe the back of the hand clutching the knife under my nose to clear the snot. “You fucking right off and leaving me the hell alone forever will make me very, very happy. So please…please just go. We’re done.”
For several long moments, he just stares at me through unusually passive eyes, nothing but the sounds of my snot-clogged sniffling between us.
Then, his shoulders relax, and with a slow, accepting nod, he turns and walks out.
I hate him. I hate myself. I hate this stupid thing between us. I hate these stupid tears. I hate Sunny. I hate Tripp. I hate my ugly-ass brothers. I hate emotions and feelings and love and promises and tattoos and lies.
As I’m again wiping my hand under my nose to clear damn snot that won’t stop coming, I pause and stare at the knife, still gripped tightly between my fingers.
I don’t hate this knife. Not its short, sharp blade, nor its textured bronze handle. I bet it has a lot of souls trapped in it. So small and neat, it hardly looks threatening. But I’ve seen the damage it can do in a split second, in one skillful swipe.
I press the pad of my index finger to the tip of the blade until a small red dot forms.
No, I don’t hate this knife.
It’s mine now. My new best friend.
Clutching it to my chest, I curl up on my boss’s desk, in my boss’s office, in a restaurant I apparently own, and cry, butt naked, like the pathetic fool I am.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“You really think I’m pretty?”
Tillie
“I’M GOING FOR Arun.”
Mom jumps into my path, blocking me from leaving. She thrusts a bottled water at my face, forcing me to drink.
“All of it,” she orders when I take a small sip to appease her. “I won’t have you collapsing from dehydration and starvation. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve barely eaten anything these last few days.”
