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“I seriously can’t believe you are doing this,” I huff, exasperated and disbelieving. “What for? Are you that desperate for my attention?”
It’s a low blow, but I’m tired, and this boomerang thing we have going on is wearing me down. Every time I push, he comes flying back at me. And I don’t know how much longer I’ll have the strength to stop it.
He finally turns to look at me, and the expression on his face is one I have never, ever seen before. I can’t place it, but it feels almost like fear. He steps up to me, the toes of his checkered Vans just inches away from my fluffy yellow socks. I pull back to look at him as he grasps onto the flesh of my upper arms.
“I believe you,” he whispers. “I believe you, Bels.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bellamy
When he utters those words, my body goes white hot and my eyes sting. This has got to be some cruel joke, surely. First the box of sentimental things, and now this?
“Why would you say that?” My voice is reedy and thin, and my arms shake under Sunday’s grip, his inked fingers pressing desperately into my flesh. There’s a strip of thunderous gray peeking through the receding black, clawing its way back as he stares at me. I feel stripped bare with him holding me like this. I couldn’t move, even if I wanted to. Even if he released me, I think I’d still be trapped under the intensity of his gaze.
When another shudder rattles me, I realize it’s not my body doing that at all.
It’s him.
I look at him again, really look at him.
Listen to the cadence of his breath; quick, sharp. Feel the hammering of his pulse in his hands as they cling to me hard enough to bruise. See the way his eyes flick between mine, erratic.
He’s scared.
“I didn’t know where else to go.” His voice cracks on the last word. “Please, Bels. I know I don’t deserve anything from you, and I know you asked me for space and time and whatever, but I’m fucking losing my mind here.”
Just like that, my walls crumble, brick by brick. They crash into one another, tumbling away and pulling my self-preservation with them. I have no more defenses left.
“Okay,” I sigh, giving a sharp nod. “Sit down.”
He releases me and walks over to the couch, throwing himself down on top of Delphine, who squeaks and disperses, only to reappear behind it with her arms crossed, face screwed up in disgust. I press my lips together tightly to stop the laugh escaping, busying myself with a glass of water for Sunday.
As I place it down on the coffee table, I wonder what could have happened for him to suddenly tell me he believes me. Does he even understand what he’s telling me he believes in?
“Start from the beginning,” I prompt, folding my legs under myself as I sit down facing him on the couch.
Sunday chews on the pad of his thumb, bouncing his leg. There’s a thin sheen of sweat collecting on his brow, settling into the creases as he tries to choose his words.
“I…something’s moving my stuff,” he spits out.
Another poltergeist, yay.
“But not like…I know where everything is. You know,” he gestures wildly at me. “You know what I’m like. I need things tidy.”
God, do I know. He was so freaking anal about our dorm room. It’s the only reason I’ve got the habit of lining my chucks up in a certain way now—he basically trained it into me. Funny how those little habits stick around even when the other person doesn’t.
“I feel like I’m going insane. It can’t be the weed.”
The fire in me stokes. “Do you smoke a lot?”
He turns his head toward me. “Well yeah, but only—” He throws his arms up in the air. “Look, it really doesn’t matter. I don’t freak like this on it. It doesn’t explain…” His words taper off, face growing visibly paler.
I sit forward, aware of the fact my shorts are riding up again from the cool kiss of air on my ass cheeks. “Doesn’t explain what?”
He shifts uncomfortably on the couch, clearing his throat and cracking his knuckles. A nervous habit. “I saw something,” he mumbles, jamming his thumb in his mouth to chew on his nonexistent nails.
It’s disarming to see him like this—someone who used to be relatively unshakable reduced to this anxiety-riddled mess.
