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‘Are you crying now?’ he mocked. ‘You think that a few tears are going to make this OK? Crying makes no difference. It doesn’t bring your mum back the way you remember her. It won’t stop the crippling muscle spasms, or her vision becoming so blurry she can’t see you any more. Or the fear in her face when she can’t swallow unaided. Crying doesn’t change a fucking thing. All it does is make it worse.’
She had no idea what he was saying any more. Was he talking about his mother? The one who was dead? She didn’t dare look up, not wanting to see the disgust in his face.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whimpered, wishing she could just die. ‘You’re right.’ She gulped down the sob. Scrubbed the tears off her cheeks with the heel of her palm. She examined the lawn between her running shoes. Newly cut, the offcuts decayed in rows of brown against the living green, the earthy smell masked by the aroma of dried grass and diesel fumes.
She wrapped her arms around her midriff in a vain attempt to fold in on herself and hold in the shame.
‘Liam cheated on me. Aldo hates me. Even my best friend thinks I’m a waste of space.’ And now you do, too. ‘I know, you’re right. I totally deserve it, for being such a selfish, immature bitch.’
Trey stared at Lizzie’s neck, the bumps of her vertebrae clearly defined. The delicate curve of her shoulder blades. So fragile, so vulnerable. A few wisps of hair clung to the back of her neck, which shuddered with the silent sobs she was trying so hard to suppress.
Way to go, you bastard. Look what you’ve done.
He stood in a daze, the crippling fury seeping out of his pores, and leaving nothing but hollow, weary shock.
How was any of this her fault? His mother’s illness? The long agonising wait for her to stop struggling and just die? The crippling guilt that hit every time he arrived at the hospice with the hope Barry, the head nurse, would tell him it was over, and she was gone? It wasn’t even entirely Lizzie’s fault she’d followed him.
He’d enjoyed flirting with her since they’d made the cupcakes for Aldo’s bake sale. Adored the bright, sexy banter. Become addicted to the thrill of just being around her.
He’d used her to escape the hopelessness, the futile anger, the smothering grief of watching his mother die. All he wanted to do right now was bury his nose against her hairline and breathe in the delicious scent of her. The summery shampoo, the spicy scent of patchouli.
His legs trembled, his knees going watery, as his pulse throbbed painfully in his ears, blocking out the sounds around him.
He sat in the deck chair next to her, let the canvas sling cup his body and rested his head on the wooden strut of the chair back. ‘Sorry I shouted at you.’
‘That’s OK.’ The murmured response was thick with unshed tears. ‘I totally deserved it.’
He placed his palm on the slope of her back, patted her clumsily. ‘No, you didn’t.’
Good job, Carson. Her mum said she was fragile. She’s a lot more fragile now, you wanker.
‘You’re right, I’m not a nice person and I’m really immature. I can see that now.’
She hadn’t looked at him, her head still bent, her bum perched uncomfortably on the edge of the deck chair as she stared at her feet, as if she were counting the blades of grass between her shoes.
He forced himself out of the chair and knelt down in the grass in front of her.
Her chin lifted, the surprise in her eyes tempered by confusion. Her cheeks were red from her tears, the dusting of freckles across her nose even more pronounced without the benefit of make-up.
He clasped her hands between his, rubbed the icy skin.
‘Trey, what are you doing?’
As her wary gaze searched his face, it occurred to him, how much he had come to love just looking at her. Those intelligent blue eyes, so expressive, so open. The soft pink flesh of her collarbone pebbled with goosebumps despite the warm day. The wide mouth, so smart and arsey one minute, so guarded and unsure the next.
She made such a vital contrast to his mother, whose thin, blotchy skin was now tinged an unhealthy yellow. Whose gaunt features had become all but unrecognisable. Whose opaque eyes saw nothing.
But it was much more than that. Lizzie didn’t only symbolise life and youth and vitality; she symbolised freedom and challenge and excitement. She was complicated and fascinating and unique. And he’d treated her like shit.
Which put him in league with her crappy friends and that arsehole she’d dated.
‘I’m trying to warm you up a bit,’ he said. ‘Your fingers are freezing. How can you be so cold when it’s such a hot day?’
The blush fired across her cheeks and she tugged her hands loose. ‘Why are you being nice to me? When I’ve been such a bitch?’
She sounded genuinely confused. And kind of concerned for his sanity.
Jesus, she had no idea of her worth. Of how much he liked hanging out with her. Maybe it was about time he told her the truth. Because the hot-and-cold routine hadn’t worked out so well. For either of them.
