Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(89)

“I’m here,” I soothed, my heart aching beyond the sutures and cuts. “I’m here.”

“Will came to the hospital, did they tell you?”

I nodded, swallowed, ached at the thought of what had happened, thankful I hadn’t been there.

“I knew he would hurt you, but I never imagined this. If I’d had any idea, I never…”

“I know.”

He shook his head. “No, there’s more you don’t know.”

“What?” My brows quirked.

“That day, when you were with him, my sister told me the truth. Annie, he didn’t just start rumors. He…” He said nothing for a long stretch, then straightened up, meeting my eyes. “He drugged her and left her at a party. Someone assaulted her.”

I sat, stunned, in the hospital bed, my hands tingling. “What?” I whispered.

He nodded, the weight of the confession heavy on his brow.

My mind raced, pieces clicking together, disgust and shock when I thought about what he’d done to Sarah. “I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be—it’s him who should be sorry. And what’s really fucked up is that I believed him when he said he was.”

I squeezed his hand.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you from him.”

“But you did save me. I don’t want to even think about what would have happened if you hadn’t.”

“I’ve already thought about it, obsessed over it, dreamed of it. The vision of you lying in that grass will haunt me until I die, Annie.” And he looked tortured and tired, dark smudges under his eyes, cheeks hollow, the change in him so slight, I hadn’t noticed it until that very moment.

There was nothing to do but reach for him, and though I couldn’t rise to meet him, he knew what I wanted and filled my arms, filled my lungs, filled my heart, kissing me with gratitude and adoration that was met with my own.

I didn’t realize I was crying until he pulled away and thumbed a tear on my cheek.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered.

“I can’t help it,” I said. “I should have seen you from the beginning.”

“I should have told you from the beginning. But I don’t want to look back. I want to start now, right now. I want you, Annie, and I’ve wanted you since the first time I laid eyes on you. And now, you’re mine.”

“Now, I’m yours,” I echoed.





25





Beholden





Greg

A week later, George greeted me at the door and buzzed me up to the Jennings’ apartment, and I was grateful for his help with the doors, as my hands were full of gifts for Annie.

Elle greeted me with the pack of dogs at her feet, but when I got a good look at her, her face was drawn. My optimism slipped out of me like air from an untied balloon.

“How is she?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“It’s a bad day,” she answered simply.

“Okay. Well, let me see what I can do.”

“She’s just in her room.”

I nodded. “Thanks, Elle.”

Past the kitchen and living room, beyond the music room and study I went, down the hallway to her room. I placed my haul just outside the door and rapped softly.

“Come in,” she said, her voice muffled by more than the door between us.

I opened it with a quiet creak. The room was dark even though it was the middle of the day, the shades drawn and lights off. And Annie was lying in bed on her side, only the very top of her blonde crown visible under the fluff of her blankets.

“Heya, sunshine,” I said jovially, making my way to the empty side of the bed.

She didn’t move, just uttered a hello that sounded like a sigh.

I kicked off my shoes and climbed in, scooting toward her until her back was nestled into my chest and my knees rested in the bend of hers.

For a minute, I didn’t say anything, and neither did she. And I gladly let her be, let her breathe.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a bit.

I frowned. “What for?”

A sigh was her answer.

“Tell me, Annie,” I said gently, a command in name only.

She drew another breath and shifted to roll over in my arms, and I moved to allow her room.

She didn’t speak until we were settled in, her voice small and quavering. “I’m helpless. I’m helpless and hurting, and I just can’t. I can’t keep lying in this bed. I can’t keep letting everyone fuss over me, but I need their help, too. I’m a burden.” She was crying, her breath shuddering, ribs shuddering with it in the cage of my arms. “I’m a mess. And my audition is happening whether I’m well enough for it or not. I can’t practice, can’t work, can’t do anything, and I think I’m going crazy.”

She stopped there and tried to calm herself, succeeding at least in schooling her breath. And I waited for her before speaking.

“I know it doesn’t change anything,” I said, my hand tracking a slow path up her back, then down again, “but we’re all here because we want to be. You’re not a burden. In fact, the highlight of my day is coming here and taking you for our walks.”

She chuckled sadly, her nose stuffy when she said, “Our shuffles, you mean.”