A Harmless Little Plan (Harmless #3)(30)

I don’t deserve that.

I know he’s in pain. I know I should reach out, should heal, should work together with him.

If nothing else, he should be thanked.

But the thoughts tumble together with hard, sharp edges of memory. The shards of terror embed themselves in my bloodstream, floating like inner tubes on a lazy river, waiting to be caught on rocks and long, thick logs made of dead trees that just haven’t rotted to pulp yet.

If memory is a mother, protecting us from the worst the world throws our way, then the present – the achingly slow now that rolls out second by second, never rushed by intent or desire – is a bully.

The present hurts me right now. It hurts to be here, to be aware, to be so close to Drew and yet so far away.

He has no idea how distant I really am.

And frankly, neither do I.

“Lindsay.” My name coming from his mouth brings me back to his bedroom, a place of sanctuary and passion that was destroyed by Stellan, John and Blaine. When I hear his voice, all I can see is Blaine on top of me, groping, his hand a final insult as I gave up on Drew.

I say nothing. I’m dying a thousand deaths inside. I slow my breath. Maybe if I slow down enough, I’ll just stop on my own, winding down like a toy that finally rests, tilted toward Mother Earth, inertia drawing it to a close.

“I know you’re here.”

No, Drew. You’re wrong.

I’m not.

The pain medication button is in my hand. I press it so hard the first joint of my thumb turns cold.

“I am so sorry,” he whispers. I can’t look at him. If I did, I know I would see tears.

I can’t look at him because that is what a whole person would do.

And I am just a shell.

“I am so proud of you,” he adds. The scrape of a chair against the tile floor tells me he’s here to stay. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard. I don’t react.

How can I?

I’m not here.

“Please open your eyes.”

I don’t.

“Lindsay. I know it hurts. I know you feel like you are dying inside, like you’re trapped in a big black hole with nowhere to grab. I know it. Grab onto me. I’m here. Grab onto me. Take whatever part of me you need and hold on to it, baby. Borrow a piece of me until you can find that part of yourself. Please. Don’t do it for me. Don’t do it for your parents. Do it for you.” He doesn’t touch me, but his hand goes on the bed, next to me. It’s shaking.

His voice is trembling.

My soul is an earthquake.

My heart is a tsunami.

And like any force of nature, there’s nothing anyone can do to stop this. It just is.

I fade out, the medicine doing its job, thank God. My eyelids crack open slightly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his head bent down, broad shoulders in a suit jacket, the fabric stretched tight.

His hands are clasped on the bed next to me.

Like he’s praying.





Chapter 12





Drew



“I brought you maple creams,” I say, holding out a five-pound box of chocolate-covered candy for Lindsay to ignore. For the last three days, I’ve visited her every day.

And for the last three days, she’s refused to communicate. Eyes closed, breathing slow, body tense. She has no idea that I understand. I do. I get it more viscerally than she could possibly know.

And that’s why I’m not giving up.

She can ignore me.

But I’ll keep coming back until the day she doesn’t.

When I woke up in my own hospital bed four years ago, sore and bruised and in denial, I let that dark slimy part of my soul take over. It’s the insidious voice that tries to convince you that life is nothing but an endless, monotonous series of seconds you have to endure because you have no value. By letting yourself be victimized – yeah, I said it, victimized – you’re forever tainted. Weak. Stupid and foolish, easily suckered.

And that will never change.

Physical pain is bad enough. Time halts in place when you’re experiencing it, as if being graciously polite, giving pause to recognize the searing interruption. You can’t rush time. You can’t get through being at the receiving end of someone else’s intentional pain because you don’t count.

You’re not important.

You have no will.

It’s not even about losing control, because everyone loses control. All of us have moments where we are at someone else’s mercy. You have two choices: Reduce the opportunity for that to happen or hope that when it does happen, they aren’t evil.

And if they are?

Well...I don’t know.

I still don’t know.

I wish I had the answers. I’m just a guy showing up day in and day out to pry his girlfriend out of the little fortress she’s hiding in, hoping a five-pound box of sugar might help.

You think I have the answer?

I’m as clueless as anyone else.

And that pisses me off.

I set the open box next to her, down by her thighs. Her gunshot wound is healing enough that the dressing is smaller, less bulky, and it looks like she has more mobility. There’s a deck of cards sitting in front of her on the bed tray, a rubber band around them. A cup of red juice and some of her favorite potato chips sit there, tauntingly normal.