Page 29 of Unbound

P

Walk me home?

The words are familiar at this point. After hearing her weak voice whisper them that first night months ago, we’d treated the phrase like a code for help. A code that she needs me.

The call of her is impossible to resist. Like it always has been. As much as I waited with bated breath for her text, now I’m fueled by only anger.

Is it better to know her as this hurtful thing in my chest than to not know if she’s breathing?

I don’t know.

But I’m reversing out of the driveway and down the street immediately, following her location on the map until I pull up to some disgustingly overcrowded house, a half ripped-down sign congratulating the football team on another win. The front yard is covered with groups laughing and shouting, but it’s all white noise.

My eyes find her immediately, sitting precariously on the overhang of the porch and swinging her legs back and forth. Blond hair bouncy and voluptuous, cascading around her pink-cheeked face. She’s dressed in a dusty blue corset and jeans, enough skin on show to know she must be freezing. Or she’s drunk enough not to feel the cold.

No one is around her, but that doesn’t mean she’s been alone tonight.

She spots me and hops haphazardly down, nearly face-planting—close enough to it that I’m shooting out of the truck and across the grass without preamble.

“Jesus, P,” I sigh, grabbing her around the waist to steady her.

Brown doe eyes glimmer up at me, her entire body relaxing as she lets me take her weight and guide her to the passenger side of the car. I lift her by her waist into my truck, buckling her seatbelt before heading around to the driver’s side.

Bon Iver croons in the cab, the gentle sounds sharply contrasting with the thunderous booming house music in a way that makes my head pound as I drive us away.

“Hungry?” I ask, voice gentle despite the pain of being this close to her.

“I want chicken nuggets,” her soft voice sighs as she burrows into my bicep. “Can we?”

It’s impossible to ignore the twinkling eyes she darts up at me. Her pouty mouth that’s almost always scowling is smiling lightly. At me.

Paloma Blake might be the snarling, claws-out girl to everyone else, but to me she’s something different.

Something softer.

“Yeah, I’ll make you some while you shower,” I say, pulling into the darkened driveway.

“With spicy ketchup?”

I ruffle her hair gently. “With spicy ketchup.”

My roommates are out of the house commiserating our loss, so it’s easy to sneak her in—especially when she hops onto my back with no complaint. Easier to get her inside and upstairs without the drunk stumbling into every piece of furniture we have.

I shut and lock my door before letting her slide down my back. While she starts to take off her shoes, I head to the bathroom to turn on the shower, waiting until it’s steamy-warm.

Stumbling a little, I grip the doorframe and dart my eyes to the ceiling to avoid searing the image of her—only in the blue corset bodysuit now—into my mind.

“Shower’s ready.”

I hear the light pitter-patter of her feet to the door. She ducks under my arms with a quick kiss pressed to the center of my chest, a distinct inhale from her like she’s seeking my scent.

Once, she told me that the way I smell is comforting to her. That it makes her feel safe. Now, when I catch her trying to take in the scent of my clothes, I worry a little that something has made her feel unsafe.

I close her in the bathroom after leaving a pile of clothes on the countertop.

I keep my room cold because I can’t stand sweating in my sleep. Which means I have to dress Paloma in warm clothes.

She emerges, swimming in the sweatpants I laid out for her. My sweatshirt, which has a near-hole chewed out of the right sleeve where Paloma likes to bite—a self-soothing tactic that makes my stomach roll every time she does it—covers her to midthigh. But she looks warm and cozy, skin still flushed from the hot shower, but eyes less glassy.