Fighting Fate (Granton University #1)(55)

A brisk breeze swept in around them, but Paige’s small soft hand was warm in his. He didn’t think he’d ever be cold again.

He sniffed and tilted his face slightly away in a hopeless effort to hide the fact he was still crying. But in doing so, he only slid his cheek alongside hers. Their flesh brushed and one of his tears sealed their skin together, compressing it as someone would press a sentimental flower petal between the pages of a book.

He wanted to kiss her. His mouth watered as if he could already taste her and he licked his lips, tasting salt from his tears.

But he’d kissed her best friend, turned her father into an abusive alcoholic, started the wheels in motion to make her mother commit suicide, and he’d murdered her brother.

With a sigh, he stepped back. She let him go so he could scrub his face with both hands. When he looked at her, he realized she was right. He might not have quite forgiven himself yet, but he found he did want to move on with his life. Except who he wanted to move on with was unfeasible.

His lungs heaved for more air. After a sniff and another palm-brush across his eyes, he forced a brave smile. “Thank you. You’ll never know how much this means to me.”





Chapter Twenty-One


SHAKEN AND EMOTIONALLY DRAINED, Paige pushed into the back door of her childhood home. She paused half a second before looking around and stepping inside. When she didn’t see a dead parent sprawled on the floor in a puddle of his own blood, she breathed out a relieved breath and silently shut the door behind her.

She waited a beat, keeping her back to the exit, and watched the occasional flash of colored light spray into the kitchen from the living room where her father had left the television on.

In the few weeks she’d been home for Christmas break, she’d yet to talk to her dad aside from a greeting hello and to ask what he’d like to eat at mealtimes.

Relieved he hadn’t made a mess of the kitchen while she’d been out, she treaded quietly down the hall and peeked around the corner into the living room.

A half empty beer bottle clutched in one hand and cradled almost lovingly to his chest as a sleeping child might cuddle a teddy bear, her father lay passed out on the couch with his head tipped back and his mouth hanging open.

If she tried to talk to him the way she’d just spoken to Logan Xander—if she tried to tell him she forgave him for abandoning her these last three years—she knew he wouldn’t thank her the humble, honored way Logan had thanked her. He’d probably deny ever leaving her, saying something along the lines that she was the one who’d left and gone to college.

Shaking her head, Paige took a throw blanket off the back of the rocking chair and gently draped it over him.

“Good night, Dad,” she murmured. “Merry Christmas Eve.” Or Christmas Tree Night as Logan would call it.

When he didn’t even alter the tenor of his snore, she found the remote and turned off the television.

After changing into some warm pajamas, she crawled into bed and thought of Logan Xander. And Kayla.

She knew exactly why Kayla hadn’t told her the truth. And she knew why Kayla had acted as if she’d been doing her own penance these past three years. It was the very reason Logan had been doing the exact same thing.

Guilt.

But had Kayla grown closer to Paige only because of her guilt? Or had Kayla truly come to care about her?

Squeezing her eyes shut, Paige refused to think about that. She felt sore and tired. Drained.

She’d be lying if she said she didn’t feel any anger, or blame, or betrayal where her best friend was concerned. She did. But she was so weary of those emotions and didn’t want to think about them. She’d deal with them later.

Falling asleep with a numb kind of emptiness inside her, Paige dreamed of Logan and how she’d held him after she’d forgiven him at the Christmas Tree farm. But in the dream, she didn’t stop with a hug. She kissed him. And he kissed her back. Then Trace came along and caught them. With a roar, he launched himself at Logan, and the two started to fight.

She woke on a guilty gasp, curled in the same tight fetal position as she’d been when she’d conked out. Sunlight streamed through her window, telling her it was morning. Christmas.

She dragged herself from bed, shuffled through the house, past her dad still unconscious on the couch, and into the kitchen.

It was always a test for her, a challenge she felt compelled to pass, whenever she entered this room. She’d never forget the morning she’d found her mother in here and she’d never like crossing this floor—new tile or not—so she did it as often as possible, on purpose, to show herself she could.

Paige opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of eggs, trying to think of happier times when she’d seen her mom hum as she cooked instead of seeing the phantom image of her dead body. She was scraping the last of the scrambled eggs she fixed onto a second plate when her father stumbled in, bleary eyes blood shot and face unshaven.

Forcing a smile, she called, “You’re just in time. Breakfast is ready.”

“Already got my breakfast,” he answered in a guttural voice as he opened the refrigerator.

When he came up with a beer, Paige clenched her teeth but refused to show her irritation.

“How about you not drink today,” she suggested with an encouraging grin. “It’s Christmas.”