Page 33 of Waiting For Ever
“Well, no offense, but if you are, I might be able to take you in your current state. And if you’re faking to get the upper hand, your makeup people are phenomenal, because that blood looks real. And that fake vomiting scene in the kitchen? Oscar worthy.”
I chuckle, then immediately grab my ribs. Yep, pretty sure a few of those are cracked.
“Look, if I’d caught serial killer vibes from you, I would’ve left you on the street and called 911.”
“Fair,” I concede. I extend my arm and take the glass of water she’s offering, still gripping my ribs with the other. The water soothes my throat, raw from vomiting. I take small sips to test if it will stay down.
“I’ve got some sweats and a hoodie you can change into. Wanna try a shower? Just go slow and hold on to something in there. I don’t wanna have to come in there and rescue Naked Crash Stranger.”
I vaguely wonder who the clothes belong to. Not that I care. I just wonder if some husband is going to come home and find me in the shower and kick my ass. Maybe he would put me out of my misery.
A hot shower does sound amazing. Every part of me throbs in pain. I hunch onto my knees and slowly get to my feet, balancing my hands on the coffee table. No nausea, just mild dizziness. I think I can make it through a shower. I follow her down the short hall into what I assume is a guest bathroom.
She places a fresh towel on the counter and disappears upstairs. She’s back in a blink with some folded clothes and sets them near the towel. She moves past me, turns on the shower and leaves me standing in the blue, ocean-inspired bathroom. “I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re done. Take your time and holler if you need me.”
“Thanks, uh . . .”
“Allie,” we say in unison.
“Yeah, memory works.” She softly giggles and closes the door.
I wish it didn’t.
I don’t know if it’s her kindness, the alcohol or the concussion I’ve likely given myself, but I’m suddenly overcome with emotion. I peel off my torn, bloody clothes, step into the steamy spray, sink to the floor and hug my knees and let the water pound my skin like a thousand tiny hot needles. I don’t know how long I sit on the tiled floor under the stream, shaking, crying into my folded arms with my forehead on my knees.
She can’t be gone.
I don’t want to live in a world without her in it. Her father killed her. He said she did it. He said she took pills. He blames me, but he did this to her. And he wouldn’t let me see her. But I loved her. She loved me. He did it. By not letting us be together. By threatening to send her away. If he’d just let her stay, let us be together, she’d still be here. God, I wanted to kill him. He said if I ever showed my face aroundthere again, he’d have me arrested. For rape. How could he say that, think that? I would never. We loved each other. He said other stuff too. About how he could convince a judge it was felony statutory rape because I’m an adult now. So I left. It doesn’t matter now because I won’t be back. There was nothing to go back to.
Everything I’ve ever loved about that town died with her. I wish I had too. I wasn’t consciously trying to kill myself when I tore out of there on my bike. I just wanted distance between me and the searing, soul-crushing pain of losing Taya. Taking corners sideways and well over the speed limit, all it took was a little loose gravel to send me sliding off the road down the embankment in front of Allie’s house. That and slow enough reflexes from the alcohol to render me incapable of recovering the turn. I didn’t know what small town I was even in. They all went by in a blur from the moment I downed the fifth I picked up at the liquor store, where I hit the road in a fury—no destination in mind.
I purposely drove in the opposite direction of South Point. No good could come of me confronting Bennick. He owns that town and they’d be rallying around him in his grief. No one knew about me and Taya except him. I could disappear and no one would miss me. Not even my parents. She was the only good thing I had going for me in my shit life. She made me feel like someone, like I was worth something.
The water turning colder drags me out of thoughts and into the now. I force myself upright, feeling the soreness more now. My entire body screams, my ribs ache, my head pounds like it’s caught in a vise. The cuts on my arms, head and face sting in the ever-cooling spray. I quickly lather my body, ignoring the sting from the soap on the open wounds. Once I dress in the sweats Allie offered—commandobecause my boxer briefs were full of dirt, gravel and blood—I make my way back to the kitchen, my clothes and towel piled in my arms.
Allie is placing two mugs of steamy liquid down on the kitchen table when I walk in. She sets one in front of a plate bearing a grilled cheese sandwich and a pickle wedge.
“Sit. Eat. I’ll toss your clothes in the wash.” She takes the pile from my arms and disappears through a door off the back wall of the kitchen—laundry room I surmise.
I’m not sure I can eat, but I sit anyway and vow to try because this guardian angel cared enough to make it for me. And she must be a guardian angel. Either that or a figment of my concussed imagination.
I take a tentative bite of the sandwich to test my stomach. It happens to be the best grilled cheese I’ve ever tasted. My stomach growls in approval. I take another bite. Bigger this time. I must’ve made a sound of approval because Allie speaks up behind me.
“I know, right? I make it with garlic buttered bread. Takes a plain grilled cheese to another level.”
“M-hm,” I agree with my mouth full.
“The tea is a favorite of mine. My go-to calming, stress-reducing blend. I promise it doesn’t suck.”
“Why?”
“Why doesn’t it suck?”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask around a mouthful of sandwich.
“Oh. Well, the obvious answer is because you needed help. And you sort of waved that ‘help wanted’ flag right in front of me by crashing your bike outside my door.”
“That’s fair. So . . . thanks for all this, but I’ll just get out of your way and . . .”
