Page 77 of Arranged Scars
“Mhmmm, that’s all. No truth behind any of this.”
“Right. Exactly. So let’s stay awake and wait for the doctor, okay?”
“Whatever you want, Caroline.”
I pull his legs into my lap and put on the TV. Whenever he seems to drift, I pinch his calf. He laughs each time like he enjoys it. I pretend to watch a movie with him, but the whole time I’m thinking about what he said.
How we could be happy if we just let it go.
And how I don’t think either of us is capable of doing that.
I was so scared before I met him. When I was living at home, every day was a nightmare. I was either getting actively abused or waiting for when someone would decide it was time to hurt me again. And when I moved out, I kept waiting for them to hunt me down and beat me all over again. That’s why I took any odd job I could. That’s why I worked at all hours.
To stay hidden.
But I’m not hiding anymore. That’s the power of what we’re doing. I’m taking my life into my own hands and doing something about my abuse. It’s wrong, I know that, but I don’t care.
I want to hurt them. And not just for me.
I want to kill them because of what they did to Finn, too.
Letting it go, living peacefully, falling in love, those are just fantasies. That road’s ruined. Maybe one day, after all the blood’s dried and washed away, maybe then we can think about each other.
For now, this is the best it gets.
29
CAROLINE
We spend a few days in that hotel room. The doctor does a good job patching Finn up and even leaves a few baggies of Percocet for him to take. But he just ignores the drugs.
That first afternoon is the hardest. He’s in a lot of pain, but I do my best to take care of him. Finn’s not the kind of guy to stay in bed, so I have to force him to take it easy. “I’m fine,” he snarls every time I make him sit back down.
“You’re not. You can’t even raise your arm.”
“I can, see—” He gasps in agony when he tries to lift it up.
“You deserved that.”
Eventually though, the healing takes over. He’s still bruised and battered, but by the time we check out, he’s doing a lot better. We leave together and he drives back to the city in a rental sedan, steering with his left hand while the right is kept in a sling against his chest.
“I won’t be able to move around much for the next few weeks,” he says through gritted teeth. “Nobody can know I got shot.”
“Dermot would put it together.”
“Exactly. Even if I had the best excuse imaginable, he’s still smart. I don’t want him looking in our direction. Not when the job isn’t over yet.”
He stares straight ahead as he says it. My guts flutter and I’m strangely disappointed. We hadn’t talked about moving forward until now and the conversation from when he was high kept playing through my head. But he might not even remember what he said.
“What are we telling people?”
“The flu. Picked it up on this trip. It’ll wreck me. Keep me nearly bedridden.”
“It’s late summer.”
“Exactly, bad luck. Happens all the time.”
“Okay, that’s doable. You don’t think Dermot will be suspicious though?”
