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“I wasn’t thinking about myself.”
“Clearly.”
Her lips fall open, her eyes widening. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Trevor. I’ll pay for your hospital bills. I’ll come to your house and take care of you until you get back on your feet, whatever you need—”
See, this is exactly what I was afraid would happen.
“Damn it, Claire, stop. Don’t you get it? I don’t want your apology. I don’t want your money, and I sure as hell don’t need you do anything for me. What I need is for you to take care of yourself, and you can start by using your brain before making any more rash decisions.”
Claire stands up, her chair scooting across the floor. She blinks, and I expect her to square her shoulders, call me out for being an asshole, and put me in my place. Instead, she cries.
If I were standing, the pain in her eyes would bring me to my knees. I hate that I’m the one who put it there, and if I ever see that look again, it’ll be too soon. I want to beg her to forgive me for being angry. I want to tell her I’m not mad at her, I’m mad at myself because I want her and I can’t have her and it kills me to look at her and not be able to touch her the way my body craves. But the choice is taken away from me when she spins on her heel.
“Claire, wait.”
She doesn’t. In three long strides, she’s yanking the door open.
“Claire!” Damn it. “Claire, please, I’m sor—”
The door slams shut. I rip the covers off and swing my legs over the bed, intent on going after her, but a thought runs through my head, stopping me.
It’s better this way.
Closing my eyes, I drop my head into my hands and try to convince myself she’s better off without me. She doesn’t need me to help her get through this; she has her mom and Mo and a slew of other friends who are probably waiting to help her pick up the pieces. As much as I hate that it won’t be me, it’s probably for the best. And I will always do what’s best for Claire, even if it’s at my own expense.
15
Claire
“Get up.”
The covers are ripped off my body, and I fly up in bed to find Mo glaring at me.
“What the hell?” I yank my covers out of her hands and pull them over my head—only to have them stripped away again.
Mo tosses my comforter on the floor and bops around my room, grabbing various articles of dirty clothing.
“I don’t need you to do my laundry.”
“I beg to differ,” she says, dumping them all into the basket before hoisting it onto her hip.
She disappears, and a few seconds later I hear my washing machine turn on.
When
she walks back into my room, I sit up in bed. “How did you even get in here?”
“I have a key.”
“That was for emergencies only.”
“This is an emergency.”
“What? What is the damn emergency?” I yell, rubbing my hand across my chest to soothe the dull ache. It’s been there since the fire, and I’m starting to wonder if it will ever go away.
“You,” she admonishes, motioning toward me. “You’re the emergency. You don’t call me anymore, your texts are one word—and that pisses me off by the way, and you skipped our last girls’ nights. Did I do something wrong? Did I say something to make you mad?”
“What? No, absolutely not.”
