Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(66)

His eyes find mine again, but his words pause, his jaw working back and forth while he thinks. I think he’s trying to protect me from knowing too much after knowing nothing at all.

“I wrote you letters. Dozens.”

His eyes penetrate me. Mine grow wide, my stomach becomes sick as I clutch the sink again, letting my legs have their way this time as I slide down to sit on the floor, my world spinning.

“You never wrote back. Not once.”

No!

His voice sounds angry, but only at first. It breaks quickly; the realization squelching years’ worth of hate and doubt caused by some unknown force. I never knew. I would have written. I would have traded him, saved him—loved him. I needed him. My heart was broken.

And I needed him.

He needed me.

He needed me…more!

“One day, I said yes.” He looks down again, running his thumb over the long scar on his belly.

“He did that?” I ask, my words crackling from my chest, my eyes barely able to look at the long line that slices through him.

Andrew nods.

“I said yes just so I could get out, so I could find you. I had to know why you weren’t writing, where you were…if you were okay. I never collected what was due to him that night. I never had any intention of meeting his people at all. He found out before I could make it to the bus station to buy a ticket with the money I’d hidden under a loose tile on my floor. You were a forty-minute bus ride away—but I never got to see you. At least not then. I had to continue to live off of your memory. He took me into his office as soon as we got back to campus, hitting me until I could no longer stand. And when the guard pulled my arm over his shoulder to carry me on my weak legs back to my room, he told them to wait for one more second so he could give me something to make sure I’d never forget. The knife was small, but sharp; more of a razor. I bled for days—just deep enough so it would heal on its own…in time.”

It’s all too much. His story—his life!

“Andrew,” I whisper, my lips dry, my mouth drier. My throat aches, and my heart hurts as it never has before.

“You didn’t know,” he says, his mouth half open, his eyes back to the lost place. I shake my head to confirm his assumption. He notices. “All this time…you…you didn’t know.”

“I would have come. I swear, Andrew…if I knew what had happened to you…I would have made them…” I’m breathless with my words, my plea cut short before I can tell him I would have made them stop, would have confessed the truth.

“Em? You home?”

Lindsey’s shout and clamor through the front door rocks me like thunder, and I stumble to my feet, clearing the counter of the remains of my work on Andrew. I look to him, expecting him to be just as frozen, just as stunned and worried about what to say, what to do. Instead, he’s already standing, pulling his sweatshirt back over his body as he moves toward the sink to wash his hands.

I watch him.

“Oh! Damn! You scared me—” Lindsey jumps when she sees me in the bathroom, stuttering when she sees Andrew in here, too. Her eyes dart between us.

“I was helping him. He needed…stitches,” I say, looking for a sign from him, waiting for his eyes to look up to see me in the mirror. He turns the sink off, dries his hands then leans into her, never looking at me at all.

“I had a bit of a fight. Hockey thing. I’m okay. Emma stitched me up,” he lies, kissing the top of her head.

My eyes sting with jealous tears as his mouth touches her hair.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Lindsey says, quickly working her hands to appraise his wounds on her own. He flinches and steps away, but not far.

“Sorry, sore. But I’m okay. I promise. I just promised I’d come by. I didn’t want you to worry. I’m going to go home, clean up, and maybe knock myself out for the night,” he chuckles.

“Sure, yeah. I mean…you can stay…” She’s still taking all of him in.

“Thanks, but I’ll be better company tomorrow,” he says, touching the side of her face gently. His touch is tender. His performance is flawless. His instant hold on me is painful—but it’s real. And I hate Lindsey right now. I hate her so much.

She walks him to the door, and I start to follow behind, but my legs only carry me a few steps before they stop, like I’ve reached my limit—this is as far as I get to go on this journey.

They say a few things to one another, half whispering, and she begins to close the door as he leaves. His hand grabs the edge, though, and his gaze looks over her right to where I am, his eyes saying we have more to say—both of us.

We do. I do. I have scars, too, Andrew. They aren’t evil like yours. Mine are miracles. But you need to know.

“Thanks for the stitches, Emma.” His voice is calm, his mouth a faint smile—all of it…fake.

The door closes, and Lindsey begins speaking. I nod and respond, but I never once hear a single word. I pretend. I keep on pretending.

And when Graham sends me a text just to make sure everything is okay, I tell him it is, pretending for his sake too.

Because the lie is so much happier than the truth, and I only know a sliver of it.





Chapter 13





Andrew