Wicked Restless

I watch him.

“Oh! Damn! You scared me—” Lindsey jumps when she sees me in the bathroom, stuttering when she sees Andrew in here, too. Her eyes dart between us.

“I was helping him. He needed…stitches,” I say, looking for a sign from him, waiting for his eyes to look up to see me in the mirror. He turns the sink off, dries his hands then leans into her, never looking at me at all.

“I had a bit of a fight. Hockey thing. I’m okay. Emma stitched me up,” he lies, kissing the top of her head.

My eyes sting with jealous tears as his mouth touches her hair.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Lindsey says, quickly working her hands to appraise his wounds on her own. He flinches and steps away, but not far.

“Sorry, sore. But I’m okay. I promise. I just promised I’d come by. I didn’t want you to worry. I’m going to go home, clean up, and maybe knock myself out for the night,” he chuckles.

“Sure, yeah. I mean…you can stay…” She’s still taking all of him in.

“Thanks, but I’ll be better company tomorrow,” he says, touching the side of her face gently. His touch is tender. His performance is flawless. His instant hold on me is painful—but it’s real. And I hate Lindsey right now. I hate her so much.

She walks him to the door, and I start to follow behind, but my legs only carry me a few steps before they stop, like I’ve reached my limit—this is as far as I get to go on this journey.

They say a few things to one another, half whispering, and she begins to close the door as he leaves. His hand grabs the edge, though, and his gaze looks over her right to where I am, his eyes saying we have more to say—both of us.

We do. I do. I have scars, too, Andrew. They aren’t evil like yours. Mine are miracles. But you need to know.

“Thanks for the stitches, Emma.” His voice is calm, his mouth a faint smile—all of it…fake.

The door closes, and Lindsey begins speaking. I nod and respond, but I never once hear a single word. I pretend. I keep on pretending.

And when Graham sends me a text just to make sure everything is okay, I tell him it is, pretending for his sake too.

Because the lie is so much happier than the truth, and I only know a sliver of it.

Chapter 13

Andrew

I got sent home from work this morning. Seems the school doesn’t really want the people showing up to hang out with little kids in the morning to look like they just got the shit kicked out of them. I told them it was a hockey fight. It got me a pat on the back from the principal and a promise that he’d have to come watch me play sometime.

I still got sent home though. Whatever. I had eight grand in my pocket and could afford losing out on the ten dollars I’d get from coloring princess posters and playing kickball this morning.

Trent was asleep by the time I returned last night, and I always leave well before he’s awake. So far, I’ve managed not to have to deal with any of the shit on my body or in my brain. But hooray for busted lip and swollen eye! I got sent home early, and Trent is sitting on the sofa slurping the milk from his cereal, eying me, ready to make me work.

“Dude. You look like hell,” he says in between slurps. The bowl finally empty, he slides it in front of him on the coffee table. He’s going to just leave it there. I know it. I stare at it until he rolls his eyes, stands, and carries the bowl into the kitchen.

“You’re like a fuckin’ chick sometimes, you know that?” He actually rinses it and puts it in the dishwasher, which makes me proud. If I’m like a chick, he’s like a Labrador. Only, Labs learn faster.

“Let me get this straight: You’re calling me a woman because I don’t want to live like a homeless man in shit and filth?”

His sigh in response is overexaggerated, and it makes me laugh.

“You’re trying to distract from the point…and hey…shit and filth? Come on, it’s a dirty bowl. Hardly a crack house,” he says, collapsing back into his spot on the sofa, staring up at me, hands folded on his chest.

The shrink is in.

I rub my hand over my chin, and it hurts like hell. Trent chuckles at me.

“Do you want me to ask questions? Or…do you just want to tell me why in the hell you look like this?”

I hold his stare for a few seconds, because shit…maybe I want the ease of just saying yes or no to his questions. I shrug, shaking my head, and take the chair opposite him, turning it backward and laying my arms over the back, my forehead resting on them so I can shut my eyes. I’m exhausted.