One of Those Faces (84)

“Hey, I’m sorry about, uh . . .” He looked straight ahead as he started down the road. “I shouldn’t have said anything about your place. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

I sighed, anxiously watching us escape Wicker Park. “Look, I know it’s not great,” I said. “But it’s not like there are a lot of places you can get into as a sixteen-year-old runaway.”

He glanced at me. “You act like that’s still who you are.”

“That is who I am.”

He shook his head. “I mean, you’re twenty-five. You’re not some kid anymore. You’re an adult.”

I gazed out the window, quietly watching the cars weaving more erratically as we drew closer to downtown. He was right. But people got stuck in either the hardest or the peak period of their lives. Normal people like Iann and Danny grew and progressed without that kind of weight. I nervously scratched at my hand. Iann. That didn’t apply to him, I guessed. He was stuck in his own cycle. “You’ve seen where I live now,” I began, turning back to him. “What exactly about my life seems ‘adult’ to you?”

He sighed, tapping his steering wheel as we waited at a red light. “Okay, fine, you’re Peter fuckin’ Pan. I’m sorry I called you an adult. Is that what you want?”

“No, but stop pretending like you know what I’ve been through or what I should be doing,” I snapped before resting my head against the seat.

We remained silent as he pulled into the parking garage and into his reserved spot. I got out of the car first, waiting with my back turned to him and clutching my bag until he started past me toward the elevator. I followed after him at a distance.

I couldn’t pinpoint why I was lashing out at Danny, which only made me angrier. He unlocked his front door and held it open for me as I passed by him, his eyes slightly narrowed as he watched me. I could imagine all the biting remarks that he was holding back building up in his head.

The lights were on in the apartment, but it was quiet inside, both of his roommates’ doors closed with light pouring from underneath onto the wood floor. I strode through Danny’s open door and set my bag on the floor. He closed the door behind us. “Did you already eat dinner?” he asked finally, kicking his shoes off.

Had I really only had rum the whole day? “No, but I’m not hungry,” I evaded, my tone colder than I intended.

He raised both of his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, fine. You can use the bathroom first if you want.” He reopened the door and took a step back. “There are extra towels under the sink if you need them.”

I pulled my bag over my shoulder once again and tiptoed across the hall to the bathroom. Thankfully, it was empty. It was much less orderly than the previous night. There was a small pile of used towels in the corner beside the toilet, and the mirror was completely fogged up.

I ran my fingers through my hair, tangled from my restless tossing on the bed throughout my daytime slumber. I scooped the hair from my neck and wrapped it into a low ponytail before stooping down over the sink, carefully keeping my eyes on the granite counter as I washed my face. The mist started to disappear from the mirror as I dug through my bag and rearranged my clothes before grabbing the bag and turning off the light.

Danny had already changed into the same pants and shirt as the night before and was sitting on his pallet on the floor, rubbing the dark half circles under his eyes.

I set my bag down and closed the door. “You promised,” I said, pointing to the bed. “I’m taking the floor.”

He smiled and shrugged. “No. I’m a filthy liar, and you’re taking the bed.”

I shook my head and sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at him. “I’m sorry for . . . well, a lot of things at this point. I feel like I’m constantly apologizing.”

He waved his hand as if he were brushing my bad mood from the bed. “Whatever you’re sorry about, let’s forget about it and move on.”

I clasped my hands together in my lap. “I feel like I break everything . . .” I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. “And I have no way to fix it.”

His hand covered mine.

I dared to meet his eyes. He was staring into mine, his brow furrowed with concern. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” he said softly. “You’ve been through things that no one should have to deal with. And survived.” He squeezed my hands once before sliding his own back to his lap. “You have to keep . . . well, surviving. And if someone wants to help you, accept it.” He finished with a grin. “I know you don’t need my help, but you don’t have to suffer alone.”

I nodded, biting my tongue to keep from protesting. I was too tired to fight it anymore. I actually did need his help. Or someone’s.

He ran a hand through his hair and stood up. “I’ll be right back.” He walked through the door and down the hallway to the bathroom.

I slid my boots off my feet and pushed them under the edge of the bed. I debated whether to take over the floor before he came back, but the door swung open, and Danny gazed at me from the doorway, white faced.

He closed the door behind him. “What is this?”

I focused on the small yellow bottle in his hands as he held it out toward me, and my heart raced.

“This was in the bathroom. I guess it fell out of your bag?” he said, watching me.