A Want So Wicked (A Need So Beautiful #2)(14)

“I’m sorry,” he says, starting to cry. He thinks of his mother, how her death several years ago has turned him bitter. Angry. He has so much regret.

I put my hand on his arm, comforting him when he needs it most. Letting him know that he always has a choice. That this is his second chance. And then I tell him to go home.

When I step back from Paul, it breaks our bond—the light gone from around us. His friends are there, although their voices are barely registering in my ears. Paul wipes his face, looking purposefully toward his car, as if about to leave. But I’m the one who is stunned.

I try to move away but stumble—catching myself with my hand on the siding of Santo’s. The warmth is fading from my body, replaced with anxious energy.

That definitely happened. There’s no way that was only in my head. Frightened, I move past the men into the restaurant.

CHAPTER 7

When I rush into Santo’s, I find the room frozen. The hostess is in her checkered dress, holding a menu. A customer has his hand raised to get a server’s attention. Even a glass of soda, half over the edge and about to spill, is motionless.

I gasp, and then the scene slips away entirely as I’m flooded with a memory.

I’m lying in bed, his arms wrapped around me from behind. He’s half-asleep but still murmuring in my ear, his breath tickling my skin.

“Let’s run away together,” he whispers. “Let’s run far away and never come back.”

I smile, my love for him so strong that it almost hurts. “You always say that,” I say, intertwining my fingers with his as I pull him tighter around me. “And I always say yes. Yes, just so long as I’m with you.”

The memory stops suddenly and reality hits me. I cry out, startled, and the frozen world snaps back to life: the hostess drops her stack of menus, the customer waves his hand, the soda spills—prompting a shout from the woman across the table. And then everyone turns to me as I stand in the doorway, trembling.

“Elise,” Abe calls, jogging from behind the counter. He looks concerned, but I’m speechless, darting my gaze around the room. When Abe comes to stand in front of me, he reaches out. “Are you—”

“What’s happening to me?” I murmur as tears spring to my eyes. Before he can touch me, I rush past him toward the back.

Panic, thick and suffocating, rages over me as I lock myself in the employee bathroom. I rest my hands on either side of the pedestal sink, crying softly. That memory—my memory—has left me absolutely heartbroken. I feel shattered, as if pieces of me are scattered about, no longer able to fit together.

“Elise,” Abe says softly on the other side of the door. “Are you okay? Do you want me to call your dad or something?”

“No,” I say automatically. The last thing I need is for my father to get a call from a stranger about his daughter losing it at work. I squeeze my eyes shut one more time, willing away the images of Paul’s life. The feeling of being in love. Those aren’t my thoughts; those aren’t my memories.

I straighten then, looking in the mirror. My eyes are red-rimmed, and I splash cold water on my face, pulling myself together. Something is happening to me, something unnatural. I know I can tell my father, think I should, but at the same time—the idea terrifies me. I don’t know what I’d do if he didn’t believe me.

I have to try to figure this out on my own. Or at least try to. But I can’t do that locked in the bathroom of a Mexican restaurant.

“Not to sound insensitive,” Abe says, his voice echoing off the door as if he’s leaning against it, “but Santo is probably going to hassle you for the outburst. And you’re sort of late for work now. Is there—”

I open the door, and Abe nearly falls in, catching himself at the last second. He’s pale as if stricken with worry.

“Sorry,” I say, trying to sound normal. “I’m obviously off my meds.”

He laughs, looking unsure of my stability. “Yeah, well,” he says. “Maybe counseling would be a good next step.”

I move past him, careful not to meet his eyes, not to give away my fear. I go to the time clock, punching my card. But as I hang it back up, I feel Abe’s hand slide onto my shoulder.

“If you need to freak out about something,” he whispers, “I totally understand. But you should try to keep it together today. I don’t want you to get fired.”

I close my eyes, his smooth voice setting me at ease. His hand steady on my shoulder, holding me still. He’s right. I don’t want to get fired.

Abe smiles when I look at him. “Better?” he asks, studying my expression. When I nod, he brushes the backs of his fingers gently over my jaw. “Good.”

And then he turns and leaves the kitchen.

As I start my shift, I find that my panic has settled into a soft dread—something manageable. And it seems that work helps to keep my mind focused, almost as if I’m able to forget about earlier by acting normal. Acting as if it never happened.

I avoid a lecture from Santo, sneaking past his office to meet Abe out on the floor. It’s nice to be able to throw myself into work, even if I’m still following Abe as part of the training. But he lets me take the orders, standing at my side like my own personal Mexican food encyclopedia. He interjects only when I really mess up my pronunciation. I’ve taken to just pointing at various things on the menu, but Abe is hip to my game and makes me try to sound them out.