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He stops walking for a second, looking down at his leg as if he forgot he had one until just now. He doesn’t seem to understand what I’m saying, so I continue.
“You were limping,” I say. “Or… dragging it a little more. Like you hurt it.”
I’ve never noticed it before, or if I did, I didn’t think anything of it. But tonight, he’s very clearly shifting more of his weight onto his right leg, as if it hurts to put too much pressure or weight on the other limb.
“Lots of things have changed since you left.” He resumes walking, and his stride looks more even now, as if my question reminded him to hide his weakness. “Don’t fucking worry about me.”
Before I can say anything else, he shoves my bedroom door open.
He drags me over to the bed, reaching for the ties with sloppy hands. I willingly lift my wrists to him as he tries to hold them and tie the ropes at the same time, his eyes glassy and distant. Irritated.
I wish for a second that I meant so
mething more to him, that he wouldn’t just tie me up after he’s used me and thrown me away, but the churning nausea in my stomach reminds me that it’s better this way. If we don’t care about each other, then what happened between us doesn’t mean anything.
We were just two desperate bodies colliding. Our souls, our hearts, had nothing to do with it.
Hale’s right about one thing, I think. Lots of things have changed.
After he finishes securing the bonds, Hale lingers in the doorway, watching me with hooded eyes. For a second, I imagine seeing what he’s seeing—me, tied to the bed, arms above my head and cheeks still flushed. Then I close my eyes, as if that can block out the image from my mind.
I keep them shut until I hear the soft click of the door closing.
He’s gone.
Leaving me behind. As always.
I want to scream as the outside world is once again closed off to me, rocked by the feelings of confusion within me. I don’t understand anything anymore. I don’t understand what my dad was doing, why I’m attracted to all of these men from my past, why I’m letting myself stumble again and again. It’s like I’m trying to be self-destructive, trying to hurt myself more and more and more.
I hate that a small part of me felt so right, so complete with Hale.
I despise it.
I want to scream fuck you at the top of my lungs, arms straining against Hale’s ties in protest.
My lips stay pressed together, but I allow myself to give in to my frustration and rage for one moment, jerking and straining against the ropes that bind me to the headboard. The stitches in my side ache as my abs contract, and I pull so hard it feels like I might dislocate my arms.
But then—
My wrists move.
The tight ropes wrapped around them shift a little, and my left hand slides partway out of the bind.
My breath suspends in my lungs, my eyes flying wide in the darkness.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper.
Hale was too drunk or too distracted by his own inner turmoil to do as good of a job as he normally does.
If I can… just… wriggle…
I press my fingers together, trying to make my hand as small as possible as I tug against the ropes. It feels like my bones are being smashed together, but when I feel my hand begin to slide out of the binds, I keep pulling, ignoring the pain.
Then it’s free.
Immediately, I sit up and begin working on the other tie with my free hand. I struggle with this one—even having one hand already unbound to help, it’s not as easy. But I keep working at untying the sloppy knot, and after a few minutes that feel like an hour, I finally twist my second hand free.
Thank god for a shootout, I think darkly. Without that and the half-bottle of whiskey clouding Hale’s judgment, it could have taken months for something like this to happen.
