Page 121 of Hopeless
“Bailey.” He pushes to stand, and I hate that I notice the way the muscles in his legs flex. The line from his quads that runs down to his knees. Down to his marred feet.
The feet that still burn every night.
The feet I woke up and rubbed last night.
How fucking dare he do this to me?
“I’ll just head back out to my trailer.”
I can’t even look at him.
My feet move swiftly across the floor to the front door.
“Bailey, wait—”
I hold a hand up over my shoulder to cut him off. “It’s all good. Totally fine. Cool, cool, cool.” The lastcoolcomes out as a sob.
My sandals sit in the entryway, but I don’t feel like taking the time to strap them back on. A buckle is just not in the cards right now. I yank the door open, sensing him behind me.
“Fuck,” he mutters. He starts to follow me, but then he turns around, moving in the opposite direction, back into his house, while I jog out into the cool night. The dog days of summer are upon us. They hit with startling rapidity. It went from hot at night, to tepid, to refreshing. The minute the sun disappears, so does the heat, the mountain air creeping in as fall approaches.
Dewy grass clings to my bare feet as I fixate on my trailer. If I can just get myself there—across that line, behind that door—I might be safe.
Safe enough to break down.
My palms land flat against the chilled fiberglass exterior, and I reach for the handle, my fingers wrapping around the chipped metal.
Inside, I’ll be okay.
I tug, but the door holds still.
It’s locked. Because of course it is.
A sob racks my body, and my forehead thumps against the side of my trailer. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
The back door of Beau’s house slams. “Bailey.”
This time, my name isn’t laced with amused frustration. There’s an edge to his tone, a sharpness. It’s not casual and unaffected. It’s hot and fired up with military abruptness.
His footsteps approach me, and I feel the tension that radiates from his body. For some reason, he seems angry.
“What made you think I was done talking to you?”
I laugh, but it sounds more like I’m crying. I wipe at my cheek and my fingers come away wet. Turns out Iamcrying. “Felt pretty final to me. No need to drag it out, Beau. I’ll be okay.” I don’t turn to face him. “Just leave me alone. I’ll be fine by morning.”
“Bullshit. You won’t be fine in the morning.”
I start at the harshness in his words. Okay, probably not, but it seems cruel to rub my face in that fact. “Fuck off, Beau.”
His palm lands on my shoulder, and when I go to shrug him off, he flips me around, pressing me up hard against the exterior of my trailer. He gets right in my face, one hand cupping my cheek. “No. You’re crying.”
His head drops, and he kisses a tear that streaks down my face. “I can’t fucking stand the sight of you crying.”
Oh god. My heart twists and it fucking hurts.
I knew it would be painful, but nothing could have prepared me for the searing, intense ache.
I need space. I need to breathe.
