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He closes his eyes and forces in a wheezy breath. “The door…was locked.”
“There’s this handy little switch, you know, that doesn’t involve putting your foot through the door.”
At that, I see a spark of life in his expression. “Did you…” He fights to speak clearly, like he’s about to say something terribly important. “Pack…the Xannies?”
I flop back in my seat, rubbing my palms against my eyes. “No, Victor, I did not pack youdrugs. You didn’t even let me pack a dry t-shirt.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Fuck…you.” He sags against the door, and I can see the sweat sheening his skin. He’s shuddering and his breath keeps catching and he’s coming apart—weak, dehydrated, confused, too full of alcohol to get control of his body.
He’s my stray. This afternoon, I fed him for the first time. I remember my favorite kitten, the small one who got sick from being lost outside in winter. My neighbor told me to come into her living room and lie on her couch. She set the kitten on my chest to warm her up. I lay there for two hours without moving, my hands cupped around the fragile creature, feeling it fight for life.
Twisting my body in the cramped car, I climb over the center console into Victor’s seat. He pulls back, jaw clenching; I can’t tell if he’s scared or being stubborn.
“Slow down.” I meet his eyes, and his brows furrow.
“I—” His breath catches painfully and he presses a hand to his chest, gritting his teeth. “Jesus Christ.”
I draw on everything I’ve learned from comforting Mom. “You know you’re safe, right?”
My heart sinks when he shakes his head slowly. Fuck, he’s so far gone.
I take one of his hands where it’s gripping the door. It’s cold and clammy, sweaty between the joints, and yet this is the first time I’ve really noticed his hands and they’re gorgeous, absolutely perfect. I wrap my bulky fingers around his long ones and squeeze gently. “I’m here. Feel me.”
Slowly, like he’s concentrating, he presses his other hand to my chest, splaying his fingers wide, feeling it rise and fall. Suddenly, I know what to say. “You’re stuck in a car with the person who hates you more than anything else in the world. Whatever you’re afraid of, it’s nothing compared to me.”
His luminous eyes flick to mine. Shifting his weight, he slides down beside me and rests his ear over my heart. I stare at the ceiling, willing my body to stay calm. His bulk gets heavier as he relaxes, warmer as he takes on my body heat.
I prop one hand behind my neck so I can look down at his dirty blond hair and slide the other up under the hem of his tank top, rubbing slowly up and down his spine.
My muscles start cramping and aching after an hour, but I force myself to stay perfectly still. I distract myself trying to name all the places I’d rather be than here, alone in a strange country, crushed under the weight of a 180 lb man having a nervous breakdown. When I realize how short the list really is, I start to wonder if I’ve made all the wrong turns in life.
