Page 53 of My Best Friend Is Broken
I was stupid to think things could ever work out between us. Stupid to believe that love could bridge the gap between what I am and what his world demands.
Stupid to think I could ever be strong enough for someone like him.
Chapter seventeen
Nicky
The drive home is the longest twenty minutes of my life.
Liam is curled up in the passenger seat like a wounded animal, knees drawn to his chest, staring at nothing. He hasn’t said a word since we left Dante’s place, hasn’t responded to any of my attempts at conversation, hasn’t even acknowledged that I exist.
He’s gone. Completely, utterly gone, retreating so far inside himself that I can’t reach him no matter how gentle my voice or how carefully I choose my words.
“We’re almost home,” I tell him as we turn onto our street, but he doesn’t react. Doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, doesn’t give any sign that he’s heard me.
I’ve seen him dissociate before, but never like this. Never so completely, never so utterly unreachable. It’s like looking at a beautiful statue of someone I love, perfect in every detail except for the complete absence of the person who should be inhabiting it.
This is my fault. I should have gone into the probation office with him, should have waited inside instead of sitting in the car like an idiot. Should have been there tostop that asshole before he could get his filthy hands on Liam, before he could drag him into that alley and whisper poison in his ear.
Should have killed him properly instead of just knocking him unconscious.
The thought should disturb me more than it does.
And maybe that’s the real problem. Because Liam seemed shaken after running into his rapist, but he wasn’t like this. It was delivering his abuser to Dante that caused Liam to shut down.
Murder and torture could be too much for Liam. Seeing the true darkness of who I am now could have been the straw that broke the camel’s back.
But what the fuck am I supposed to do? There is no way in hell I could run into the man who raped Liam, and let the bastard breathe, let alone walk. It is simply not in me anymore. If it ever was.
Is that darkness too much for Liam? Is that what has turned him into a living statue? Is this my fault and not his abuser’s?
I park the car and turn off the engine, the sudden silence feeling oppressive after the background hum of London traffic. “Liam? We’re home.”
Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition.
I reach over carefully, not wanting to startle him, and touch his shoulder. “Can you walk?”
For a moment, I think he’s not going to respond at all. Then he unfolds himself slowly, mechanically, like a marionette being operated by someone who’s forgotten how bodies are supposed to move.
The walk to the apartment is surreal. Liam follows me without question or hesitation, but there’s no awarenessbehind his compliance. He’s operating on autopilot, going through the motions of being a person while the actual person hides somewhere I can’t find him.
Inside, he heads straight for the bathroom without a word. The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I’m left standing in the hallway wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to do now.
I pour myself a whiskey. Then another. The amber liquid burns my throat but doesn’t touch the cold knot of fear that’s taken up residence in my chest.
Today started so perfectly. Liam was happy and glowing, beaming when I called him my boyfriend, like the word was made of gold. We were making progress, finding our way toward something that looked like healing.
And then that creep had to crawl out of whatever hole he’s been hiding in and destroy everything we’d built.
I should have seen this coming. Should have realized that letting Liam go anywhere alone was a mistake.
But I wanted him to have some independence, some semblance of a normal life. Wanted him to feel like a person instead of a thing that needs constant guarding.
Fat lot of good that did.
I check my watch. He’s been in the bathroom for fifteen minutes. That’s not necessarily unusual, Liam likes long showers, says the hot water helps with the anxiety. But something about the silence feels wrong. Too complete, too absolute.
There is no sound of running water.
