Take Me On (Pushing the Limits #4)(30)

The ache from earlier returns to his eyes and it reflects the hurt tucked deep inside me.

“Whatever it is that’s going on with you,” I say, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m good.” His eyebrows furrow and he stares out the front windshield.

He’s obviously not good, and I bite my bottom lip. For strangers, West and I have become uncomfortably familiar in a rapid amount of time. Our worlds didn’t just collide; they merged as paint spilled on a sidewalk and it’s like neither one of us will be the right color again.

“You can tell me—that is, if you want to talk. If you’re worried, I’m not a gossip because I’m not exactly—” my fingers flutter in the air “—popular.”

West opens and closes his mouth a few times and I hold my breath. Whatever he has to say, it’s big, and somehow, it feels right for him to tell me. “My family threw me out Saturday.”

The air rushes out of my lungs as if I got steamrolled by a front kick to the chest. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

“Yeah.”

But I’m not sure I believe him. For months, I’ve been the queen of chaos. I’m a mist, a vapor. Belonging nowhere yet stretched everywhere.

This boy drops into my life with his clothes and car and attitude that suggests he’s rich and affluent and the king of the world. With one small yet enormous statement, the gap that existed between us disappears. I slide across the divide, placing my fingers as tightly as I can around his. “I get it, West,” I whisper my secret to him. “I understand not having a home.”





West

I’m used to people talking, saying words aloud to prove they know more than me, that they’re better than me. But they’re just words. Syllables strung together between breaths to fill uncomfortable silences.

Meaningless words.

Haley, on the other hand, speaks volumes with a touch. The way her hand clutches mine, it rips out my heart and tosses it onto a platter.

This moment, it’s too raw. It’s too real. And the instinct is to snatch my hand back and slam the door shut on the sharing, but the other part of me—the part that feels as if my remaining sanity is a gift on the verge of being returned—it clings to her.

I knot my fingers with Haley’s and turn my head so I’m focusing out the driver’s-side window—away from her. If I look at Haley, I’m terrified of what I might say, what I might feel. And f*ck me, I’ve already said too much.

If she understands this, being without a home, will she understand the rejection? Will she understand the devastation that everything you have ever loved doesn’t love you in return? And because I can’t face those fears, I’m unable to face Haley.

She squeezes once and it’s like her voice caresses my mind: I’m here. I get it.

I squeeze back.

Seconds pass into moments. Moments into minutes. No words. No meaningless conversation. No eye contact. Just our hands combined.

My throat swells. Haley’s the only string holding me together.

“West,” she says as if we’re lighting a candle for a loved one in a church.

“Yeah.” My voice is cracked, gritty. Don’t say it, Haley. Don’t say you have to go.

“I have a curfew I need to meet.” Yet her fingers wrap tighter around mine.

“Okay.” I should release my grip, but it’s hard. I never realized I could lose everything. Now I don’t want to lose anything, especially her. Not even for a short period of time.

Haley loosens her hold and I withdraw my hand, placing it in my lap. I thought I felt alone and isolated when I tried to sleep in the darkness of my car, but the cold exhaustion left behind when Haley removed her hand indicates I had no idea what lonely was.

The door cracks open and cold air rushes into the SUV.

“Tell me if you run out of places to stay,” she says and then the door shuts behind her.

With her pack slung over her shoulder, Haley shoves her hands in her pockets and slowly idles to the front door. I want to stay and see if she looks my way before she goes into the house, but I don’t because what if she doesn’t?





Haley

West is homeless. I sort of crave to crawl onto his lap, bury my head in his shoulder and weep for him because when you’re the one going through something so horrible, it’s too difficult to cry for yourself. Sometimes I wonder if the agony inside would disappear if someone would shed the tears for me. I’m not sure I could survive expressing all the pain.

My heart one million percent aches for West and that creates problems. I’m attracted to him, I hurt for him and, overall, I like him and I need additional complications like I need a hole in my head.

Staring at the television, my uncle sits on his La-Z-Boy throne in the living room. He’s below a man, who’s below a man, which makes him the lowest man at an exterminator company. From six in the morning until three in the afternoon, he kills things for a living. The things everyone else cringes to touch.

I slip off my sneakers and line them neatly near the front door and hang my backpack on one of the many hooks. Feeling like a wallflower geisha, I lower my head and position myself next to my uncle’s chair. I learned once in Sunday school that wishing someone dead, wishing for the murder of someone, is as sinful as committing the act. Standing here, I have the same thought every day: when I die I’m heading straight to hell.