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I don’t think the Haywoods had a deadbolt. Actually—I know they didn’t. Why’d he change the lock?
He steps onto the porch and holds the door. My eyes find his and plead. His shift away. He lets go of the door, and I push through it.
“Cold out here,” I murmur.
Maybe he mumbles something. I don’t even know. My pulse is pounding; blood is racing through my veins.
He starts down the stairs, a step in front of me. I realize he’s still shirtless. The wind blows at us from the direction of my house, and I can see a shudder race across his shoulders.
Sympathy for him. Or empathy. I don’t know why. My stupid heart won’t close its door.
It’s awkward now; I’ll have to break the ice again. His shoulders hunch against the wind. I tell myself I’ll do that as long as I have to. Break the ice and break the ice, until he’s thawed enough that I can always reach him.
When we’re halfway down the front porch stairs, I touch his elbow. “Hey…”
His body stiffens as his eyes come reluctantly to mine.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
“Why would anything be wrong?”
My blood runs cold. Even his voice is different. I feel sweat pop out along my hairline.
I wait a heartbeat for the swell of bravery I always feel around him—that extra little something that makes me feel the way I used to back before the accident, back when I was everything I hoped to be and I had never lost enough to make me second-guess myself. I look into his face and make myself available for when the feeling comes, so I can grab on and I’ll know what to say, or what to do. But nothing happens.
He stares at me like I’m no one to him, and all I hear is what he said at my house.
“We’re friends.”
“Are we?”
I have a split-second memory of my knee rubbing between his legs. His fingers surging inside me. The recollection warms my blood, and brings with that physical sensation a small crest of glee.
I press my lips together and look over at him. His eyes meet mine, but quickly pull away. He keeps on down the stairs.
As I follow behind him, watching his broad shoulders and the sparseness of his movements, I can almost see him on a catwalk. I look down at my ankle. I can’t even keep it straight. The foot turns slightly outward, as it has on stairs since the accident.
“Barrett?”
I don’t even mean to speak. My voice just reaches out for him.
He turns, his striking brows bunched and his lips pressed flat.
“I wanted to say thank you.”
As he nods and turns to step down the last stair, my throat thickens so much I can’t breathe.
“What do you mean just Mr. and Mrs. Wesson?”
I watch my parents exchange load
ed looks. My mother shifts positions at the foot of my railed bed.
“They weren’t invited here,” she says to my father. My mother sounds defensive. Angry.
Why?
“Am I not here?” My voice sounds duck-ish—the words all rubbery and cramped. Because my mouth won’t work. They think I’m too doped up to notice, but they’re wrong. I saw it yesterday when Jamie helped me to the bathroom.
