Never Let You Go(84)

I don’t want him to talk. I want to listen to the music. I pull him down on top of me. Then I feel him pushing up between my legs and there’s pain, a burning, and I whimper and try to get away from the pain but I can’t really move, and he’s panting in my ears and saying he loves me and tears are leaking out of my eyes.

When it’s over we lie still in the dark. His skin is sticky against mine and he’s nestled against my side, kissing my shoulder and my neck, his hand stroking my hair.

“You okay?” he whispers.

I nod because I don’t think I can speak. It’s done. We’ve had sex now. I guess I must have wanted it, but I don’t remember. I close my eyes, take some deep breaths. I just need to sleep. My body is so heavy. I let myself sink into the darkness. I disappear.



I open my eyes, roll onto my side, and the room spins. I think I might be sick and press the heel of my hand over my mouth, choking back the bile. He’s asleep beside me, the sheet down around his waist. His chest is white, his ribs bony. When he’s sleeping, his mouth is slack and he doesn’t look so handsome. I look around the room. The half-empty bottle of rum on the dresser. My clothes beside the bed. The condom wrapper on the night table. I turn away.

Delaney. She has her car. She must be in the living room. We have to get out of here. I reach over the side of the bed, pull my clothes closer. My cell is in my pocket.

Five missed calls from my mom, then I see the time. Three-thirty.

I get dressed, pausing each time the room spins, then find the bathroom, bumping into the door in the dark. I have to grip the counter to hold myself up. I let the water run slow. My lips feel bruised, the area between my legs tender. I wince, press a cool cloth against my skin.

I tiptoe out of the room and down the hallway to the living room. The walls squish toward me and beads of sweat break out on my upper lip. I brace against the wall, close my eyes, and wait for the moment to pass. The living room is empty. Just glasses left on the table.

I’m confused. I spin around. Could she be in one of the rooms with Matthew? I don’t know. I don’t know how I’m going to get home. I sit on the couch. Maybe I should wake Jared.

Bits of the night are coming back to me in broken images, but I can’t remember so much. I’m scared about what I might have said, the things I did.

I see his face hovering over mine, his lips moist, and feel my stomach shudder. Then I remember him saying something. I think harder, bring the moment back into focus.

I’d do anything for you. That’s what he said. What does that mean? I don’t know.



It’s cold outside. I was dressed for being in a warm car, not walking, but the air feels good. Clean. I want to roll in the snow like when I was a kid and made snow angels, but then I remember making them with my dad and my eyes sting. The driveway is slippery, ice crunching under my boots, and the road is still a long way off. Delaney’s car is gone. She’s left me, and I think that maybe we argued, that maybe she was trying to get me to leave earlier, that I may have even shouted at her, but everything is muddled. I hate the thick sludge in my brain.

I hold my coat tighter against me, my cell clutched in my hand. When I get to the road, I’ll call a cab. That’s what I’ll do. But when I reach the top of the driveway and rummage through my purse, I don’t have any cash. Then the rest comes back. Delaney and I stopping at the store on our way to Jared’s. She needed gas and I gave her the money.

I look back down the road toward Jared’s house, but I keep smelling his bedroom, it clings to my clothes, the booze, his sweat, our sex smell. I turn and dry-heave into the snow.

I slide my finger across the screen on my cell. All those missed calls. She’s going to be so upset. So disappointed. I scroll through my phone, search the numbers, and call Marcus’s cell.



We’ve been driving for a few minutes, but he doesn’t say anything. He didn’t even ask any questions when I called, just told me that he’d get me as soon as possible and I should wait inside the house where it was warm, but I sat on the front steps. His car is hot, the vents blasting at my face, and the heat makes me more nauseated. I’m still shivering and have my arms wrapped around my body. He’s pulled over twice so I can throw up, stopped at the gas station to buy me Gatorade, and passed me a couple of Tylenol out of his glove box.

“Is she really mad?” I say.

“She’s worried.”

“She’s going to freak out.”

“She may sound upset, but mostly she’s just going to be relieved you’re okay.”

“She can’t baby me all the time. I’m moving out soon.”

“She’s still going to be your mother. And we worry about people we love.”

“You used to be a shrink.”

“Yes.” He glances over at me.

“How am I supposed to be feeling about my dad being dead?”

“You’ll probably feel all kinds of different emotions. Sometimes all at once.”

“I did something stupid.”

“Feel like talking about it?”

I can’t tell him about the sex. No way in hell. “I got really drunk.”

“We’ve all done that. Are you hurt?”

The way he says it makes me think he knows. He sounds like a doctor at a hospital. My head is fuzzy. I want to talk to him more, ask questions about his daughter. I’m staring out the window, but my eyes feel heavy again, so I let them drift closed.