Page 47 of Don't Leave Me Behind
“What is this?”
“You wanted me.” I feel the fire stoke in my belly. Years of suppressed anger finally making it’s way to the surface.
“What?”
I take my cracked, decade-old brick of a cellphone out of my pocket and cross the bathroom. Shoving the old device into his chest, I glare at him. “You wanted me.”
He looks down at the phone, cradling it to his chest as his hand rises. I move mine before he can take it. Soft grey eyes meet mine, a yearning I’ve only ever dreamed of burning deep within them. “Of course, I wanted you.”
His voice comes out quiet, fingers gripping the device a little tighter.
“You never called,” I say, voice shaking a little as I back away from him, unable to keep up the courage to stand toe to toe with him. “You never said so, you said…” I cut myself off, turning on my heel to march back into the bedroom. The air in the bathroom feels too hot and charged to breathe.
“Leni…” He follows me out, keeping space between us.
“No! Clay, you lied! You told me you didn’t want me. You let me think that none of it was real.”
“That’s not true. I told you I didn’t want you there. I never told you I didn’t want you.”
“You might as well have! I know Mercer told you about the mugging. I know you knew and you never once?—”
“I did,” he grits out, one hand running through his curls. He looks around the room, frantic. “I tried to call, but I had yourfucking phone. Three days,” he growls. “Three days after you left, I called again, and your number was disconnected. You never calledme. You leftme.”
His voice comes out broken as he stares at me with wide, pleading eyes, begging me to see him. To understand something, I’m not sure I can.
“I told you I wasn’t good for you. I told you that you deserved someone better. I knew you would, but part of me hoped you wouldn’t go and stay away.”
“I was eighteen.” My defenses start to rise, old wounds piling up on top of each other, festering.
“I know. Fuck. I know that. I fucking hate myself for what I did to you that night. For the way it changed everything here.” Both hands reach up into his hair this time, fingers pulling at the ends of his curls. His eyes are wide and glassy as his chest heaves in breath after breath.
“Clay.” I start towards him, jumping back when he puts his hands up to stop me. They fall back to his sides, chin tucking into his chest, defeated.
“Jesus Christ, you’re terrified of me. How can I stand here and tell you that I wantyouwhen you’re scared of me?”
“Want?” I breathe, my vision tunneling onto him, because it’s always been him. “Not wanted?”
“Yes, Leni.Want.” Clay backs up, bracing himself against the wall as his hands drop to rest on his knees. His head lifts, enough to take me in. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted. I never stopped wanting you. How could I? You’re my home.”
“Then why did you let me go? Why didn’t you come after me? Why did you write me all those letters and never send them? Why?—”
“Because you were dead!” His voice explodes, spittle flying from his mouth as he sinks to the ground. Head in his hands, he takes in a shuddering breath. “You were fuckingdead. I watched my own hands kill you in that nightmare.” Shaky palms turn up to me; tears streak down his face. “I killed you. I know—I know it wasn’t real, but I watched it like it was.”
“Clay,” I croak, voice sounding foreign to my ears. Dropping down next to him, I pull his open palm to my face. I press a kiss to the heel of it, then press it to my cheek, shifting my gaze back and forth between his.
“I can’t risk you. Anything but you. Anyone but you.”
I nod, squeezing my eyes shut to try and stem the tears welling in my eyes. “I’m not afraid of you.”
He snorts, wiping at the moisture on his cheeks. “I think the evidence proves otherwise. It’s okay,” his voice softens as he runs his thumb along my cheekbone, tucking a loose wave behind my ear. “I don’t blame you for being scared.”
“It’s not you,” I reiterate. Pulling my knees up into my chest, I wrap my arms around them, fisting my hands so tight that I can feel my nails dig into my palms. “I lied,” I whimper. “About everything. I wasn’t mugged.” My voice cracks, all the bravado from earlier gone. Clay sits up straighter, his eyes never leaving mine as he gives me the time to find the words. “My ID was in my phone case.”
Reaching back, I pluck the little plastic card out of my pocket and toss it at him, watching his eyes widen.
“I couldn’t take a plane, so I got on the bus.”
“You took a bus? In the middle of the night?”
