Page 20 of This Life and All the Rest
She shakes her head again. “They said it could be a while.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, taking a step back.
I should turn and leave, but something about the way she’s watching me makes me want to stay. The icy demeanor from earlier is gone, and It’s addicting. I linger, keeping my gaze locked with hers.
I open my mouth, then shut it, because what do I fucking say? I don’t want to risk interrupting this moment. I’d stand here locked in this stare off forever, if it meant I got to keep her like this. Not cold and detached. Not blank.Real.
Here in the hospital, the betrayal and heartache seem to pale in comparison to all the other shit we’re dealing with, and the only way Lennon and I can exist in the same space is if our past is minimized to something tolerable. Forgettable, even.
Anything more, and we’re match-lit gasoline.
The energy between us is so palpable. We’re either going to murder one another or fuck each other senseless.
And then probably murder each other.
“Thank you,” she says, finally breaking the silence.
It’s whispered and her voice cracks. I furrow my brow, confused, and she smiles the smallest, saddest smile.
“Thank you for saving him.”
It makes sense, then, so I smile back.
“I had to pay it forward.”
I mean it as a joke, but her face falls immediately, and I regret it. I know how fucking terrifying it was for me when Trent collapsed. I never should have brought up the night of my overdose.
I close my eyes.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have s—”
My words are cut off when familiar arms wrap around my waist.
My eyes fly open, and I freeze, stunned, for one breath, then two, before I slowly bring my arms out so I can return the hug.
It’s not awkward. Not even for a second. She fits between my arms, against my body, like she was meant to be there.
I inhale deeply through my nose, breathing in vanilla, and try to shake how wrong the scent is. The body feels right, and I let myself rest my cheek on her head. It takes all my strength not to bury my face in her hair.
“He’ll pull through,” I say against her, repeating the words I’ve said to my mom a thousand times since Trent’s collapse. I don’t even know if I believe them, but I keep saying them. “He’s going to be okay.”
When she drops her arms and steps back, my heart sinks. I fist my hands to keep from tugging her back against me.
“If he’s okay, it’s because of you.” She runs her fingers under her eyes to wipe away the tears. “Thank you.”
I nod, but keep my mouth shut.
Her attention drops to the bruise on my cheek, then my split lip, but she doesn’t ask what happened. Just furrows her brow.
Then she fixes her eyes on my jaw, and her lips quirk to the side.
“You, um...” She reaches out like she’s going to touch me again before letting her hand drop back to her side. “You’ve got something on your face.”
I brush my fingers over my stubble and find a spot of dry, matted clay. I laugh.
“Clay,” I say, and she smiles.
“You still do that?”
