Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(51)

I rub my pounding temples as I try to figure out how I ended up on the bathroom floor.

The smell of vomit lingering under the vanilla is my first clue.

The man watching me from the bathtub is my second.

Wes is lying down in the tub, fully clothed. His muddy boots are propped up on the ledge, and his head is on the opposite corner. His eyelids are heavy, like I just woke him up, but his blown-out pupils are alert and trained on me.

He doesn’t say anything at first, and neither do I. We just stare at each other, both waiting for the hammer to drop, and when we finally speak, it’s at the exact same time.

“You slept almost all day,” Wes says.

“You’re really here,” I blurt out.

Wes nods, and the look on his face isn’t happy.

It’s sad and sympathetic.

Reality wraps around my empty stomach and crushes it like an aluminum can as the meaning behind that look takes hold.

“You saw,” I whisper.

Wes nods again, pressing his lips into a hard line. “I’m so sorry, Rain. About everything, but … fuck. I just … I had no idea.”

“I’m so sorry.” His words hit me like an ice-cold bucket of reality.

My chin buckles as my gaze drifts over to one of the candles. I stare at the flame until I convince myself that that’s why my eyes are burning.

I’m so sorry makes it real. The way he’s looking at me right now makes it real. The fact that he saw it too makes it real.

I reach into the neck of my flannel, desperate for something to shut down the pain, but my shirt has been ripped wide open, and my pills are long gone.

Because I took them all.

And he made me throw them up.

Grief and shame and irrational rage blur my vision and turn my hands into fists. I was going to die without ever having to feel this. Without ever having to miss them. I was going to stay numb and distracted until April 23 and then the horsemen would take me to wherever they had gone and we’d be together again like it never happened. I had a plan, but then Wes showed up and ruined everything. Now he’s here and he’s saying he’s sorry and he’s looking at me like my parents are dead and my painkillers are gone and it all hurts so fucking much and—

“I hate you!” I shout. The words echo off the walls, and tears blur my vision, so I squeeze my eyes shut and scream it again, “I hate you!”

I grab a hairbrush off the counter and throw it as hard as I can at him. Wes catches it just before it hits him in the face.

“You ruined everything! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”

“I know,” he says, deflecting a toothbrush holder and a bottle of soap. “I’m so sorry, Rain.”

“Stop saying that!”

I lunge toward the bathtub, hoping to claw his stupid green eyes out. The same ones that watched me drown in my nightmare. The same ones that are watching me drown now. But Wes grabs my wrists as I come across the edge of the bathtub and pulls me in with him.

I land on his chest, and his solid arms lock around me, pinning me in place.

“Let me go!” I howl, writhing in his grasp and kicking the tub with my bare feet. “Don’t touch me! Let me go!”

But Wes just holds me tighter, shushing me like a child. I struggle and fight and kick and flail, but when I feel his lips press against the top of my head, when I feel his arms rock me from side to side, all the anger leaves my body.

In the form of a sob.

“Shh …” Wes runs a hand over my hair, and it reminds me of the way my mom used to do it before she left for work.

I picture her exactly the way she looked the morning before it happened. Stressed. Frazzled. Her dirty-blonde hair gathered in a lopsided ponytail. Her blue hospital scrubs stained with coffee.



“Mom, we have less than a week left. Why are you still going to work? Will you please just stay home? Please? I hate being here with Dad. He just drinks and takes those painkillers for his back and messes with his guns all day. He doesn’t even talk to me anymore. I think he’s, like, snapped or something.”

“Rainbow, we’ve talked about this. Not everything is about you. Other people need me, too. Now more than ever.”

“I know, but—”

“No buts. There are two types of people in this world, honey—wallowers and workers. When the going gets tough, I deal with it by working, by trying to help. Which type of person are you going to be? Are you going to stay home all day and wallow, like your father, or are you gonna get out there and try to help somebody?”

“I want to help,” I said, dropping my eyes to her scuffed white sneakers.

“Good. Because, when this thing blows over—and I’m sure it will—a lot of people are going to need your help.”



Even though it hurts to remember her, it’s also surprisingly comforting. It’s almost like she’s right here with me. I can still hear her voice, still smell the hazelnut-flavored coffee on her breath as she kissed my cheek. The worst part isn’t seeing her again; the worst part is knowing that she’s been here the whole time, but I’ve kept her locked away.

She deserves to be remembered.

Even if it’s only for a few more hours.

When my cries die down and I finally catch my breath, Wes runs a soothing hand down my back.