Toxic (Ruin, #2)(11)

But I didn’t deserve one. Maybe that was the problem.
“Yeah.” I wiped my face with my hands. “I can do that. Give me fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks… Gabe.”
“Anytime, Martha. Take care.”
I hung up and stared at the dorm. Wes was a freaking miracle worker, no joke, like a walking male version of Mother Theresa.
Shit. I may as well be the devil.



Chapter Six
He tasted like cinnamon — too bad I was allergic to cinnamon. Good thing I didn’t go into anaphylactic shock from the kiss. That would have been awkward. —Saylor
Saylor
I wasn’t really sure how long I stared at the piano before I was able to function enough to play. Each time I tried to lift my hands, all I could picture were his. They’d had music notes on each knuckle.
Why I’d remember such a ridiculous detail, I had no idea. But it seemed weird that a guy who looked like that was capable of the music that had come from the practice room. What had come out of his mouth when the door was closed was completely the opposite of what he looked like and how he’d acted when I was eavesdropping.
Maybe it was my fault. After all, I’d been salivating over the music like a dog in heat. It was my weakness, my downfall. I hadn’t heard those songs in a long time, they pulled at something deep within me, some untouched part that I longed to unleash but was too afraid to tap into. Funny, because it had nothing to do with the actual song, but the way it was played — with such passion and abandonment that I was immediately jealous.
It was why my music major wasn’t performance, as the asshat had assumed. It was music theory. I wanted to be a professor. I wanted safe. Safe meant I’d have a job, that I’d be able to pay off my ridiculous student loans, and that I wouldn’t fail.
Safe was all I had. Because when you took chances you got hurt and I was so done being hurt. Most people went to college hoping for an adventure — I’d be happy with a diploma and a mug with my alma mater on it. Nothing was more important to me than not having to worry.
Typical for someone who’s been taking care of her family for the past few years. I was all my little brother and my mom had. They were counting on me to make something of myself so that I could, in turn, provide for them.
And it wasn’t even like they were asking a lot. They just wanted me to graduate and find a job that brought in decent enough money so we wouldn’t have to live paycheck to paycheck.
I shook my head. Practice. Mom. Eric. Those were my motivators, not some tattooed, spoiled bad boy who liked attacking innocent girls in music rooms.
Nice. I was a romance novel waiting to happen.
I closed my eyes and placed my hands on the smooth keys and so began my two hour practice session.



Chapter Seven
I kept a picture of us in my pillowcase like an absolute nutjob. She’d had it in her pocket the day of the accident. I wanted it as close to my face as possible when I slept every night. Because every night I went to bed hoping it was all a bad dream, and every morning I woke up to the terrifying reality that it was not. You’d think I would stop hoping…but I’d never stop. I’d never stop praying for God to take it away. —Gabe H.
Gabe
I pulled out onto 405 South and took the exit toward the other side of Seattle. How many times had I driven this same route over the years? Through rain, snow, sleet, hail. Shit, I was like a dog with a trail in his owner’s back yard. Predictable to the extreme. I was either at school or at the Home. I increased the speed, hoping that it would decrease the sharp pain in my chest. I was messing everything up just by existing, it was too tempting. To end everything. End everyone’s misery.
Almost as tempting as dropping the whole happy-go-lucky bullshit act and actually pouring my feelings out to anyone. Hell, I’d even pour them out to Lisa at this point, but she was too close to the situation. It would just make her cry, and I hated seeing that girl cry. Correction, I hated seeing any girl cry. The last time Kiersten cried I wanted to do a freaking heart transplant so she wouldn’t hurt anymore. I would have gladly taken her pain. After all, what was one more broken heart when yours was in a constant state of being shattered?
The moist air bit into my leather jacket as I got closer to the water. I slowed down once I pulled up to the Pacific Northwest Group Home and put my bike in its usual spot.
The building had once been an old hospital but had been converted into a group home with an adjoining retirement home in the late fifties. Later it was remodeled to include a state of the art treatment center for people with brain injuries. Every time I parked in that spot, the same feelings washed over me. Dread, heartache, confusion, guilt.
Luckily, the building was a pristine white with exposed wood, making it look more like a set of cabins on the water than what it really was.
For some reason I was delaying the inevitable. My feet felt like lead as I approached the doors. It had been… different since Wes’s surgery. Or maybe I was different? Whatever it was, I wasn’t dealing with anything well.
I walked toward the main building — the treatment center — and braced myself for impact. The first steps into the entrance were always the hardest.
“Gabe!” Martha clutched a clipboard to her chest and let out a sigh of relief. “I know it’s not your normal day but—”
“It’s fine!” I flashed her a smile when I all I wanted to do was turn around and march back out to my bike and cry. I was here five days a week. You’d think it would be enough. But lately, even being there twenty-four seven wasn’t doing the trick. She was failing. And it was my fault. Martha gave me a sympathetic pat on the hand.