Page 155 of Lucky 14

Something churns in my stomach like sick butterflies, fluttering weakly against a bubble cage. Sawyer and Miles are waiting in the woods to nab Oakley on his walk. They’re going to drag him to the shed, glue a number to his chest, and leave him for a few hours. Then Miles is going to cut him free, and he and Sawyer are going to hunt him down.

I’ve told them not to hurt him. In fact, I told them I’d kill them if they hurt him. An image of Oakley running, falling, and skinning his hands hits me with cold clarity. Next, I see Sawyer throwing a punch in his face and the fear in Oakley’s blue eyes.

My stomach turns over, and I suck in a breath.

I tell clients that revenge won’t make them feel better. And yet, here I am. Revenge sure feels like it’ll make me feel better. That is, until I start imagining it.

Fuck Oakley, he can’t take this revenge away from me, either. All week, all I could think about was all the ways he helped me during the game and the regretful blue eyes he turns at me all the time. And then I think about how every decision he makes is influenced by his desire to just be loved, and I gotta stop thinking. Because fuck, being a therapist has made it really fucking hard to be okay.

The soft pad of footsteps comes down the stairs, and I know immediately it’s Oakley. It’s three when he usually goes out.

It’s happening.

I can’t breathe, and an overwhelming wash of cold settles over me like I just jumped in the ocean. It feels like something bad is about to happen.

Which is stupid. Nothing bad is going to happen. I’m in control. I’m just going to scare him a little.

I need to see Oakley before he goes. See the face that looked at me and lied about why I was there. The face that made me trust him when he was ruining my life. I hurry through the kitchen, expecting him to be out the door, and catch my breath when he’s walking toward me.

I stop short.

Oakley’s eyebrows raise a fraction, then his face flushes. That face that has no business being that pretty with the dark hair falling into his eyes.

“Oh, uh. Hey.” Oakley hides something behind his back.

I frown and stare at where his hand is hidden. He looks shy, like I caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to be.

Like he’s been doing since I met him. That anger is back, washing over all the uncertainty and fear for a brief second.

Oakley gives an awkward laugh. “I didn’t know you were…I was going to leave these for you.” He pulls his hand out, walking to the counter and dropping little white objects there. They look like little…figures.

As I look at Oakley’s familiar fingers, the ones that handed me his favorite treat, the ones that shoved me behind him every time I was in danger, and I feel…sick.

Oakley rearranges them, then rubs the back of his neck. “They’re uh, yeah. It’s dumb.”

I look closer. There’s a little fox, a mouse, a wolf, and a cat. I’m not sure why he made them, but they’re cute.

“Don’t tell Cali, I stole their soap.” Oakley keeps rubbing his hands on his pants, and I catch a whiff of clean scent. He carved the figures out of soap. For me?

“So, yeah.” Oakley takes a step back. I look up to see him looking at me, then he backs up even further.

I search for the burning in my chest, for the hatred boiling up. But all I see is the guy who pulled me out of the woods and told me I could sleep on his bed. The guy who brought me food after I had been starving, then told me he lied about having friends and that he’s always been lonely. The guy who so desperately wants to feel safe.

Where the hell is the anger?

Instead, there’s a choking feeling in the back of my throat.

Oakley isn’t so different from me. We both just want to feel safe. If he walks outside, he won’t be safe.

What am I doing? This doesn’t feel like me. This isn’t me. I’m caught between the different sides, like a fox caught between the walls of a trap. I’m not sure where to go. Can I go anywhere? Or have I trapped myself?

“I’m gonna…go.” Oakley turns to leave.

“No.” The word is out before I can stop it, harsh and afraid. Harsh and twisted like my stomach.

Oakley slows, but doesn’t stop.

“No,” I say it again, louder this time, and this time it feels like that twisting in my stomach stops.