Page 189 of Secret Obsession
Gross.
Miles strokes my hair away from my face. When the heaving subsides, the nurse passes me a cup of water and takes the tub away. She’s already bandaged my arm, a wad of gauze taped to my skin.
“Our doctor will be in to check your head wound,” she says. “It looks deep. It may need stitches.”
The curtain closes, leaving Miles, me, and the lawyer with the illusion of privacy.
“Don’t talk to anyone,” Asher orders. His tone is brisk, no-nonsense. “Don’t answer any questions. Not here, not at the station, not in front of your goddamn house. If the police bring you down for another statement, or under the guise of follow-up questions, make sure I’m there before you say or write a word.”
“Okay.”
He pats my foot. “We’ll get you through this. If they even decide to press charges. And don’t confuse these flimsy curtains for walls.” He flicks one, and it sways against his finger.
I take a breath and force a smile. He ducks out, and then it’s just Miles and me.
We don’t say anything. I stare at him, he stares at me.
There’s a lot I want to ask. How his ear is, if his hearing is impaired, what the fuck he’s going to do with Knox. But I can’t say that now. It’ll be saved for later, when I get the clean bill of health, and we’re safe at home.
Home.
Weird to think about the hockey house that way. But the longer I think on it, the more I realize it’s true. It’s home—but more than that, Miles is.
And I want nothing more than to go home to him.
61
MILES
My family’s a lot to take in. If you take the charm and charisma that oozes out of Knox and multiply it by four, that’s my mother. She’s a natural beauty, the most popular woman I know, and the kindest, too. Knox got the asshole gene from my father.
Me, too, I guess.
They’re classic childhood sweethearts, their relationship beginning their sophomore year of high school and still going strong almost thirty years later.
I don’t know a lot about Willow’s family, but judging by her bewildered expression, it’s not likethis. Oh, because my parents are currently dancing around the kitchen, Dad singing some off-key rendition of Frank Sinatra.
We’ve been here for an hour, in which my mother has tried—and failed—to get Willow out of her shell.
But my girl has been even more withdrawn lately. Freeman fucked with her head. I think she was fully convinced she was dying, and in some small way, made peace with it. Now, to find herself alive and well, has left her with a misstep.
Sometimes she wakes up crying, grasping my shirt and shaking uncontrollably. But only when we don’t sleep with the lights on.
Darkness scares her. And it doesn’t seem to be going away anytime soon. This fear has a chokehold on her, and I can only imagine what her brain processes when she’s waking up from a nightmare, only to be unable to see.Again. Like being tossed right back into the nightmare she lived.
Trauma runs deep. That’s clear to see. But she’s getting better. Inching past what happened to her. To us.
Because of our involvement with the investigation, and the lawyer’s strict instructions for us to stay in Crown Point until things resolved somewhat, we pushed off the trip to see my family until Caleb’s okay.
Apparently, a trip to see family is an acceptable reason to leave town.
So here we are.
It’s Thursday. We’re staying here tonight, in my old bedroom, and tomorrow we take the short drive to the away game. There are only a few games left of the regular season, which slips from winter into spring.
Another week, and spring break will be here.
Willow mentioned that her parents and sister are coming.
