Page 155 of Someone Like Me
I pull her to me and wrap her in my arms. Later, I’ll realize that seeing her like this should have scared the hell out of me. But in this moment, it doesn’t. Whatever is wrong, I’ll take care of it. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her, so, as far as I’m concerned, this problem is solved. Whatever it is.
I’ve got this. I’ve got her.
So I hug her to me and just let her cry. Hot tears soak through my shirt. Her whole body radiates heat like a furnace. I raise a hand to her wet cheek and smooth the wispy curls away from her face. Her curls are damp from her tears as though she’s been crying for a while.
She’s clutching me with fierce strength. Like she’s afraid of losing me. As if she ever could.
I lower my lips to the top of her head, kiss her reckless curls, and drop my mouth to her ear.
“Whatever it is, it’s okay.”
Evie shakes her head against me but keeps it buried. Her voice emerges in a squeak. “… Not okay.”
She’s in one piece. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t have any scrapes or bruises, but too late, the thought occurs to me that someone may have harmed her.
My arms close tighter around her. “Did someone hurt you?” Anger like hot tar begins to boil in me. If anyone touched her—
But she’s shaking her head against me, and more wet squeaks and sniffles emerge against my chest. “No. No.” But then she fists my shirt in her hands. “Well, yes, but not like that.”
I frown. “Like what?”
This question just kicks off another wave of tears, so I walk her further into the house, which, at first glance, seems empty. There’s no sign of her parents, and if Gemini were here, he’d be right at Evie’s side. I think we’re alone, but then the sound of a door squeak from the hall at the other end of the room makes me wonder.
Evie’s parents’ house is nice. Even nicer on the inside than it is on the outside. Still clutching her to me, I walk her to the expensive-looking couch. Who has a white couch? Isn’t that just an accident waiting to happen?
I grew up in a household with three kids. The one time Ma actually bought a new couch when we were little, it was brown. And not even solid brown. But streaked with dark green and black. Nothing was showing up on that thing. No spilled Kool-Aid. No stray Sharpies. But this looks like a blank canvas ready for disaster.
I sit Evie down, but I don’t try to peel her from me. She’ll surface for air when she’s ready, and then we can get this worked out. She’s still clinging to me, hiding her face in my shirt, so I just run my hands up and down her back to make sure she knows she’s not alone.
“It’s alright,” I whisper. “I’m here. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
But this, clearly, is the wrong thing to say because Evie smothers a cry of pure agony against me. And the sound of it stabs at something small and young inside of me.
“Baby, what’s wrong?”
For a long moment, she is just silent, pressing so hard into me it’s like she’s trying to join me in my skin. And I’d let her if it would make her feel better. But then she pushes back from me. Her beautiful face is puffy and red from crying, her lips and nose raw.
With rough swipes, she brushes away her tears and blinks up at me, but then her face closes on another silent sob, and she hides it behind her hands.
“Evie, babe.” I gently clasp each wrist. “What is it?”
I tug lightly, and she lets me pull her hands away. The look she wears behind them is one of complete heartbreak. It hits me that every time I’ve opened my mouth, I’ve made her cry harder, so I shut the hell up. She knows I’m listening. I watch her and wait.
This must work because she forces a deep inhale, blinking against fresh tears, and she looks me straight in the eyes. “I don’t want to do this.”
I frown in confusion. And then it hits me.
I once read that the worst feeling a human can experience is doom. Just ask anyone on death row. The certainty of annihilation surpasses simple fear, overrides dread. Doom is hopeless. It is destruction, death, and damnation all at once.
This is what I feel at Evie’s words. Doom. And a full-body frostbite. She doesn’t even have to say it. She’s ending this. Ending us.
Just like I knew she would.
Her bottom lip is trembling, and she bites down on it before speaking again. “I don’t want to do this,” she says again, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I have to.”
I can’t feel my face. I hope my expression is even. Blank. I’d like to give her a look of understanding. Of acceptance. But I —
Damn.
