Page 116 of Quiet Obsession
“Yeah?” His brow furrows, nostrils flaring as he staresbetween us. “Whose fist slipped first, huh? Andwhy?”
My mind scrambles for a Millie-free explanation, but Noah beats me to the punch.
“My fist was first and Zara’s the reason.”
“Zara?” Hyde spits out, white-knuckling his beer bottle. “You nailed Creed because he had his hand upZara Harrington’sskirt? Since fucking when are you into her?”
“I’m not into her.” Noah drawls. “I’m just not into him treating women like toys.”
I’m not sure if this is supposed to help or bury me, but I have no defense, and it’s not like I can explain the reality of the situation.
Hyde mulls it over, then side-eyes me, clearly not convinced. “And you? Why did your fist slip?”
“He threw a punch.” I shrug. “I threw one back.”
“Youdeserved it. He didn’t.”
“Maybe if he’d given me that speechbeforesplitting my lip, I would’ve held back, but the heart-to-heart happened after.”
“Right, you hit first, ask later,” he mutters.
Even though he’s said these words enough times before, they hit differently now. He takes a pull from his bottle, draining the contents, eyes on Noah.
“You sure you’re not into Zara?”
“I’m sure.”
That simple admission makes Hyde’s shoulders relax. At the same time, a rusty blade slices into my heart. He’s relieved. He’srelievedNoah’s attention is still on Millie.
My throat locks up, my mind pulling forth every hit Jeremiah ever landed on my body. Every time I was locked away in my room for hours, unwanted, discarded, a nuisance. Every time I begged for his approval, only to watch his lip curl in disgust.
I’m that unworthy little boy again.
A fresh sense of betrayal floods over me, nearly knocking the breath out of my lungs, and if this is how Hyde felt last year, then I understand why he’s never forgiven me.
Because I don’t think I’ll ever forgive him forthis.
33
Millie
My fingers hover over my sketchbook.
The urge to create has been building for months, but since I met Creed, it’s become relentless. Life feels sharper now. Louder, brighter, and harder to ignore.
He brings out my sense of self, and fighting it grows more exhausting every day. I don’t know what I’m protecting myself from anymore. I don’t know if I want the parts I’ve hidden to be brought into the light and accepted or buried deeper.
This overwhelming confusion and feeling of being torn in two is why I’m staring at a blank page while clutching my phone.
I haven’t spoken to my psychiatrist since he released me from his care. I felt fine at the start of the summer, but now I don’t and he’s the only person who might help memake sense of what’s happening inside my head.
Dialing feels like a setback... then again, nothing feels like a step forward anymore, so I press the phone to my ear.
Dr. Quinn answers on the second ring, his soothing voice like a balm over my frayed nerves.
“Hello, Millie, how are you doing?”
“Awful,” I admit, my voice breaking. “Can we talk? Do you have time?”
