Page 71 of Little Bird
I put my fingers to her cheek. “Tell me.”
She closes her eyes for a beat like she’s trying to marshal the words, and when she opens them, I can see that she’s going to tell me the truth—or at least as much of it as she can.
“She married a mobster,” she says quickly. “He’s associated with one of the biggest families in New York. He doesn’t like me, and she...”
“Won’t protect you.”
“Right. They didn’t know I was in jail, and I realized I could disappear. Finally get away from them, and they wouldn’t know where I went. But he... he... he must have cops on his pay, because somehow they figured out I was there. And they arrived before your father. So I didn’t get away like I wanted. That’s...”
“That’s who’s been calling you and threatening you,” I guess. “Your mother. But why the fuck do they want you back so badly? Why won’t she leave you alone?”
Her eyes fill with tears, making the whiskey color even more prominent, and I swear on everything I hold dear that I’m going to kill Helen for frightening my girl like this. But I keep quiet and still. I need to know the whole truth.
“I have something they want,” she whispers.
Before I can ask what, she whirls away from me, tears streaming down her cheeks, and rushes toward the door. In her haste, she brushes against the shelves by the door and sends a mug clattering to the floor. It shatters into a million pieces, coffee shooting across the floor. Taryn gasps and starts apologizing, immediately dropping to her knees to start cleaning up the glass. And as I watch, she pauses, picks up a large shard of glass, and runs it quickly across her palm.
Then she does it again.
“What the fuck!” I curse. I rush over and slide to my knees, grabbing at her wrist before she can cut herself again.
Instead of stopping, she puts the fingers of her other hand to the cut and pushes at it, like she’s trying to make it bleed harder.
“Taryn!” I slap her other hand away, confused and horrified. What the fuck is going on here? What is she doing?
The cut is bleeding freely now, and I yank my shirt over my head and wrap it carefully around her hand. The shirt will be ruined, but I don’t care. I don’t want her bleeding all over the floor.
I want to know why the fuck she’s running the palm of her hand across a piece of glass, her eyes dazed like she’s in some sort of trance.
I pull her other hand to me and force it open until I can see the palm. She’s got scars here. Lots of them. They look like lifelines, but they’re not, and when I look up at her again, her eyes are on mine, and they’re full of fear and regret.
“Taryn,” I whisper. I drop her hand and put fingertips to her cheek, trying desperately to understand. “What happened to you? What’s going on?”
The look on her face morphs into desperation, and then horror, and before I know what’s happening she’s leaned forward and pressed her lips to mine. She tastes like coffee and tears. Sugar and something sharp and dangerous.
She’s everything I’ve ever wanted.
I try to pull her closer but she’s already gone, like mist in the night, slipping out of my arms and running for the door, leaving me kneeling on the floor among the shards of what once was a mug of coffee.
taryn
I make it as far as the top of the stairs before I realize that I’m running away from my best friend for the hideous sin of him caring too much about me.
I close my eyes and lean against the banister, trying to get my brain to slow down. It’s not Gabe, I tell myself firmly. It’s not that he cares too much. That part is fine. And it’s not that I’m running away from him for daring to show that he’s worried about me.
Though being inside my own mind makes it hard to lie to myself about that.
The truth is, I ran for more reasons than I can count. The way we’d been leaning into each other when I was talking about the marketing plan. The look on his face when he realized I’d just called him a sexy lumberjack. The way I forgot how to breathe when he reached for me and pulled me around the table.
The way the air got thick and heavy as he looked down at me, his expression telling me he wanted me to finally be honest about my feelings for him.
I gasp at the memory and squeeze my hands together, which makes the most recent cut sting... and reminds me of the other thing that made me run.
Gabe saw me cut myself on that glass and not react. Then he saw my palms, which I generally hide from everyone because of the scarring. And the look on his face was so full of horror, so full of worry, that it ripped my heart to shreds.
The truth is, no one has ever known that I cut myself, because I work hard to keep it a secret. That’s not for anyone else to worry about. Hell, I don’t even worry about it. And I don’t do it that often; just when the emotions are too big to handle on my own. It’s not like I actually have a problem. Just a sort of habit.
Like chewing gum.
