Pucked Love (Pucked, #6)(69)

I don’t know what to do about him, either. I’ve made such a mess of things.

He calls several times a day, but I can’t answer. I’m afraid to. I know what he was going to tell me. But I can’t decide if it was coming from a place of honesty, or if he was simply trying to give me a balm that would somehow soothe me, erase the pain and fear and uncertainty of everything that made me who I am. And I’m unsure who that even is anymore.

I want too much to let him love me.

But admitting it won’t prevent him from being traded. Loving him won’t stop him from moving halfway across the country. And if he goes, he takes half my heart with him.

He will regardless. So I don’t know why the words scare me so much.

Maybe because all the love I’ve known has been tied up in so much weirdness and instability. Maybe I think as soon as it’s real, it will fall apart. And if he stays, I have to acknowledge all the ways I’ve kept us in this constant state of stasis.

I spend all of Thursday watching terrible reality TV, trying to feel better about my shitstorm of a life. I don’t know how to unbreak myself enough to be able to love the way I want to. I mentally unpack my childhood at The Ranch, followed by the freak show that was my teenage years, until I stumbled upon Violet in my first year of college. And in doing so, I see all the pieces of myself and how they fit together in a jagged-edged puzzle of crazy.

I’m sheltered but not. I created normal where there wasn’t. I made a family so I wasn’t alone. And then I found Darren, the man who molded himself into what I needed, who changed as I required, who kept his emotions locked down to protect me from myself, who never once put the lid on my jar. In a lot of ways we were safe for each other, until it all came crashing down, as happens when emotions are given room to breathe and grow.

I can’t allow things to continue like this, with him constantly altering his needs to suit mine. But now that I see things clearly, I realize that how I operate is exactly what he’s used to. I put restrictions on us, and he abided by them.

If I keep doing this, I’m just as bad as the people who raised him. And that’s not what I want to be. Because I love him, and as scared as I am of what’s coming, I don’t want to lose him.

By Friday I’m restless. I’ve binge watched every terrible reality TV show available. After six straight hours of Garage Wars, I clean my house from top to bottom and fall asleep at four o’clock in the morning, only to have nightmares about being trapped at The Ranch again. Except there’s no way out anymore because instead of a razor-wire-topped fence, the perimeter is lined twenty feet deep with recycled junk, and every time I try to climb to the top, the stacks fall and bury me.

I decide to switch to game shows after that for a few hours. Every time I nod off I have another nightmare, though, so I consume a pile of my candies, hoping to find some calm. I miss Darren. All I want is to curl up in his arms and let him protect me. But I worry as soon as I do, he’ll turn into another Frank, and then I’ll be trapped for the rest of my life.

It’s not rational. It might not even be sane, but the fear takes hold and roots itself in my brain.

Around noon my stomach rumbles, and I make my bleary way to the fridge. The box of wine my mom left for me has probably turned into vinegar by now, and I’ve eaten all the food Violet left me yesterday. She’s supposed to stop by after work with fresh donuts, which is all I want to consume right now, but that’s still hours away.

There’s a convenience store down the street. They’ll have Twinkies and Ho-Hos. I can make it there and back in less than twenty minutes, especially if I drive. Nothing bad will happen.

I get a load of my reflection in the mirror. I look like I’ve been on a serious bender. My eyes are bloodshot, and my pajamas are a wrinkled mess. I end up taking a very long shower and changing into a pair of leggings and a shirt Darren bought for me. I brush and braid my hair, because drying it would take too much effort. Then I grab my purse, phone, and keys and open the door.

I’ve forgotten about the security detail—don’t ask me how, he’s there all day every day—and I suck in a sharp breath and grab for my pearls. But of course they’re not there because they broke, again, all because of crazy fucking Frank.

“Miss Charlene, I apologize if I’ve startled you. Do you need something? A ride to Mr. Westinghouse’s perhaps?” he asks, polite and formal.

I consider it for half a second as I glance around at the wide open space and all the potential for danger. All the worst possible scenarios bounce around in my head, such as Frank popping out from behind some bushes with a chloroform rag and dragging me back to the RV with the help of all the co-op women.

“No. No, I’m fine.” I back up and slam the door closed, fixing the lock with shaking hands. I’m sweaty, and my mouth is dry. I pop one of my candies, even though I’m not sure they’re effective at keeping me calm anymore.

The soft knock at the door makes me scream.

“Miss Charlene? I apologize again for startling you. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“How do I know you’re not part of Frank’s RV gang?” I shout through the door.

“I’ve been hired by Mr. Westinghouse to ensure your safety, Miss Charlene.”

I know he’s telling the truth. He’s been standing outside my door all week. Also, Darren texted me his picture and his personal details.