Oh, now he’s angry? I bet he’s been holding on to that for a long time.
“I didn’t have a choice!” I was twelve and had to follow my guardians wherever they wanted to take me.
“And I did?” he counters.
I throw my hands in the air. “Absolutely, you did.”
“I love you, Bella. I never wanted to leave you, and I sure as fuck didn’t want to go to prison.” His livid stare sears into me, and I can’t look away.
“I don’t know what you told yourself, but you don’t love me, not really. You care about me, or maybe you’re obsessed, but you don’t love me.” Not in the way I love you—or did.
There are many kinds of love, and I loved him in every single way. Loved. Past tense. Although, I don’t think I know the meaning of the word, anyway.
“If you did, you wouldn’t have done what you did. You would have thought about me before going to the twins.”
“You’re the reason I went there. You’re all I thought about.” He speaks calmly, but there’s no missing his barely restrained frustration.
“No,” I bite out. “Don’t put that on me. You went there for yourself, too. You needed something to get off on, and you wanted to feel like you were doing something right. You did it because you wish someone was there to do it for you.”
He stays silent, which is somehow worse than his anger. If we were both screaming, maybe I wouldn’t feel bad for cutting into him. There would be something to make both of us bleed and become casualties of our own making.
But I shoved the knife in, and for the first time in my life, I’m going to twist it. Even if it hurts me too. “Actually, I should be thanking you.”
His brows lower. “Why?”
“Because I realized I don’t need you. I needed to learn how to be myself and be thrown into the water without anyone saving me. I learned I can survive without you.”
I don't pull away when he reaches for my hand this time. “It was never about needing someone to save you. Everything has always been about having someone else there to make living a little easier.” He pauses before continuing, “You never needed me. You needed someone to love you for who you were. I love you—all of you.”
I swallow, not wanting to acknowledge those words. “I survived the past three years without you.”
“It’s about more than just surviving.”
“We need to go back, Roman,” I whisper. “There’s no one to look after Jeremy, and I have all my commissions I need to do.”
The smile he gives me is almost sad, but hopeful. “I organized for a decent family to take him in and packed all your supplies into your bag. We’re staying here.”
“I want to call him. He’ll be getting home from camp and he’s going to freak out.”
“I’m sorry, Bella.”
“I have to call him. I need to make sure he’s okay,” I insist.
He takes a deep breath. “The police will be monitoring his calls. They could start looking into him or take him out of his home.”
I feel stuck between a rock and a hard place. I don’t want Jeremy to worry about me. “Where is he? How did you manage to get him a place when I’ve been trying to get him out of there for years.”
“An old woman I know named Margaret has a free room and an endless supply of Pop-Tarts,” he explains, even though it doesn’t make any sense to me. “Just give it a couple more weeks and I promise you can call him, okay?”
“Fine.” I stare at the space between us, counting the grooves in his wooden chair. This conversation isn’t over, but I don’t have the energy to deal with this right now.
The chair groans and skitters back across the floor when I get up. “I’m going to lie down. Please, don’t come into the room.”
Because I know he came into mine these past few months. The mornings smelled of sandalwood and cinnamon, and I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. I know better now; like I know that every morning I’d wake up hoping it wasn’t my imagination.
Chapter 19
ISABELLA
Amethyst light pours through the slit in the curtains, casting long shadows across the room. Objects take shape, clearing and solidifying the more I blink.
Faces come alive in the sketches lining the walls, staring down at me as I sink deeper beneath the covers. The heavy blankets aren’t enough to keep my lungs from burning with each inhale of frigid air.
A loud whack clears away any prospect of going back to sleep. My muscles groan as I peel away from the warm bed, examining the room.