Page 70 of Undone

“And I called your phone twelve times— What the hell are you doing in here?”

His eyes drop to my hands, and mine follow, taking in the deep indigos and purples smeared over my fingers. It’s like seeing them there makes the uncomfortable antsy feeling rise—suddenly fidgeting and desperate to wash them off. I’m usually careful, hating to feel anything under my nails.

But I finally started painting and my mind was racing. I can distantly hear the distinct noise of a record being played through and skipping waiting to be flipped or removed.

“I’m sorry.” Now I feel like a skipping record, hands rubbing, feet squeezing into the rug at the entryway, like it might soothe me.

He blows out a frustrated breath, a sound I know well by now, and thrusts something into my hands. A small red box.

“Here,” he snarls. “I’m late.”

That’s the most of a goodbye I get, before he’s storming off, tucking his fancy peacoat tighter around him against the wind as he slips back into his sleek black car and backs out like a bat out of hell.

Heart pounding, I close the door and walk back to my room, only daring to open the package once my bedroom door is closed and locked and the window secured.

It’s . . . a ring.

A gaudy diamond shaped like a teardrop and a rose gold band with tiny diamonds flickering off them all the way down as far as I can see without removing it. And I won’t.

I don’t want to touch it.

My hand snaps the box closed like I’m trying to stop it from catching fire, shoving it into the bottom drawer of my dresser beneath all my leggings and running tights.

As if that will make it disappear somehow.

I need to get out of here. Get air. Breathe.

Still kneeling beside my drawer, I grab a black scuba jacket and head to the bathroom to scrub the paint off my hands. And maybe the burning imprint the diamond ring box has left on my skin.

Then I slip on my jacket and headphones, grabbing my shoes on the way out, and take off running.

• • •

“Shit,” I mutter, slowing down as I reach the town house strip, “She Wants Revenge” loud in my earbuds before I pull them out, and look over my shoulder. As if I don’t already know exactly who is behind me now. A stupid boy on a stupid motorcycle with a helmet I vandalized at sixteen.

Part of me considers sprinting, like I’ll make it to the door before Toren can get off his bike, though the rumbling sound is gone now. Still, I try it, taking off up the driveway and toward the stairs, making it to the top step before his hand reaches around my neck and pulls me back against his chest.

“Wanna try that again?” His voice is all low condescension, and it frustrates me in more ways than one.

“Let go.” My voice is high and squeaky, breaths still coming out fast from my quick pace.

He does immediately, and I reach for the door, only for his tattooed hand to slam over the top to pin it closed.

“What in the hell do you think you were doing, Lily?” His eye is bruised, butterfly tape sealing a new cut that makes my stomach somersault with fury and anxiety. I want to ask, but he’s furious, face red. Still, I can see that there’s something deeper there that looks a lot like fear. “It’s fucking rush hour and you’re running around without—”

“I was fine—”

“You couldn’t hear me behind you!”

I push my body back into him, trying to throw him off, and it’s just enough before I can yank open the door, letting it smack against the wall in my fervor. I stomp inside, letting him follow me because I know he’s going to.

“You’re not the boss of me!” I shout.

Toren slams the front door closed, dropping his helmet by the door and backing me into the nearby wall.

His presence should annoy me, frustrate me—even scare me. But he doesn’t. He just . . . soothes me.

Even more than the run did.