I think he may even love you.
Ian’s voice in my head is the last thing I want to hear. I hit my temple with the heel of my palm. Once. Twice. It’s automatic. The urge to get him out of my memory is startlingly strong.
He may even love you.
It’s on fucking repeat. I smack my head, my ears. Anything to forget Ian Fletcher’s voice.
“Margo,” Caleb says. “Stop.”
He grabs my wrists, but it isn’t enough.
One meltdown just became two.
I wrench myself away, almost falling off the couch, and then…
Caleb moves too fast. Faster than my mind can comprehend.
He stretches himself out on top of me, pinning me to the couch. He catches both of my wrists, yanking them up over my head.
It pulls on my stomach, my abs, and I cry out.
He doesn’t relent, though. This is the Caleb I know—the Caleb I deserve. His face is angry. Hell, furious. He leans down, his hips digging into mine.
“You don’t get to beat yourself up,” he whispers. “You don’t get to be cruel to yourself.”
“I can’t—”
“I don’t know what you fucking think you can’t do,” he growls.
His face is right over mine. Our legs are tangled together. His hands hold my wrist, but I can barely feel it.
Even when he’s angry, he’s gentle.
I meet his gaze.
“Face it, Margo. You’re a lot stronger than you think.”
I shift my hips.
He smirks. “You trying to proposition me?”
“It would be a good distraction.” I sigh.
“Is that what you want? Just a distraction?”
I ponder that. No, I don’t think I want just a distraction.
The answer must be written on my face, because his expression clears. He releases me and hops up. “What you need is sleep.”
I glance out the window. Sometime between us sitting and now, the sun set. “Is it even eight o’clock yet?”
He rolls his eyes. “Does it matter?”
No.
I push myself up and walk toward the bed. There’s a picture on the dresser of Caleb and Eli. It makes me do a double take.
Am I really that dense?
“Caleb… do you live here?”
He stops behind me.
It would explain the sheets covering the furniture at his house. But then… what about his parents?
His finger runs down my spine. “The basement is mine, yes. If and when I ever need it.”
“You took me here when I was drunk.” I pivot until I face him.
“Well, I hate to break it to you, love. You kind of have a bad reaction to my house.”
I shudder. I do.
“Bed.” He looks pointedly at the mattress.
I climb in and lie down, pulling the blanket up to my chin. It smells like him, the same as the shirt. I almost bring it up again—why he’s living here, why he’s being nice—but I can’t do it.
He crawls in beside me, lying flat on his back. His eyes close.
“Sleep,” he says.
If I close my eyes, I might see him.
Caleb exhales and tucks me into his side. I cling to him and force my eyes shut.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers into my hair.
I relax. And eventually, I sleep.
29
Lenora rushes out of the house, down the steps. She throws her arms around me, holding me close. The scent I’ve come to associate with her—orange blossom from her shampoo—envelops me.
Tears prick my eyes.
She pulls back and looks at me. “Robert said something bad happened, and then you didn’t want to come home?”
Caleb didn’t let me out of his sight until I was safely tucked in Riley’s car. Now, Riley stands awkwardly behind me, fidgeting.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Today, there are new bruises. My stomach looks terrible—worse than yesterday, even—and my neck… there’s no hiding the marks on my skin. Caleb got the marker off my arm, but the bite? That’s going to stay for a while.
I showered this morning, moving slowly. I almost vomited at the thought of reaching up to wash my hair. But then Caleb came in, eyed me, and took over.
The memory of his hands massaging my scalp will keep me warm tonight, that’s for sure.
“My dear girl.” Lenora cups my cheek. “I understand that sometimes it’s better to have a friend’s comfort. Especially since you two have become so close.” She gestures for Riley to come closer and loops her arm around Riley’s shoulders. “Thank you for taking care of her.”
Riley shifts from side to side.
I widen my eyes at her. We’ve been over this.
I’m not sure how Robert and Lenora would react to knowing I was at Caleb’s house overnight. Well, Eli’s.
Does Riley know Caleb stays at Eli’s house?
When I tried to question Caleb about it again this morning, he wouldn’t answer me. I’ve abandoned the topic for now.
“I already called Emery-Rose,” Lenora says. “And I think you should see a doctor. At least to make sure…” Her gaze falls to my stomach.
I swallow.
“My best friend is a trauma doctor,” Lenora says. “I asked her to stop by on her way in today.”
“So it’s already decided,” I mumble.
Lenora shrugs. “Riley, you should head to school.”
My best friend snaps to attention. “Yes, ma’am.” She gives me a quick hug, then retreats.
Lenora and I walk into the house. I go to my room and shrug off my jacket, quickly switching Caleb’s shirt for one of mine. I stuff his under my pillow.
I exchange my skirt—couldn’t exactly wear his shorts home—for comfortable pants.
Lenora closes the front door as I come back down. “Riley forgot she had this,” she says, lifting my backpack.
I manage a smile. “Thank you.”
“Couch? Soup?”
I nod and collapse on the couch, grabbing the remote. A day to do nothing but recover? I’m okay with that.
It’s early in the morning. There’s the rest of the day ahead of me.
Once Lenora is done hovering—she brings me water and soup, which is lovely—I dig into my backpack. I can’t just sit here and do nothing, as peaceful as that sounds.
I find my phone at the bottom of my bag. Reaching in, I scroll through missed calls and texts from Caleb and Riley. My attention settles on one text from my mystery texter. The timestamp shows that they sent it yesterday afternoon. My hands tremble.
I click on the text before I wimp out.
Unknown: This is the only time I help you.
* * *
Unknown: [image attached]
It’s a photo of Ian towing me across the field. Did Unknown send it to someone to help me? Caleb, maybe? He found me awfully fast…
I shudder.
There are too many people pulling strings in my life. It makes me angrier than I could expect.
Lenora’s doctor friend comes over, a portable ultrasound machine in tow, to inspect my stomach. Both women gasp when I raise my shirt. There’s a lot of probing—ow—and she finally rocks back on her heels. She fires up the ultrasound machine and squirts gel on my stomach, like they do for pregnant women.
I cringe at the idea of being pregnant.
“The ultrasound is clear,” she says. “It seems like deep bruising. Have you been nauseous? Vomited at all?”