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“Where are you?”
“At home. I live—”
“I know where you live. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
He knows where I live? I know I should be asking how, but instead I find myself saying, “I’m a mess. I need a shower. I—” I stop, realizing I sound panicked.
“Just get yourself to the end of the road. I’ll be there.” There’s concern in his voice now, and the knowledge that someone is actually worried about me, rightly or wrongly, makes me feel less worthless. Less demoralized. Less despised.
“But I’m a mess,” I repeat on a whisper, looking down at my frightful state.
There’s silence for a few moments, and it gives me a chance to consider what on earth I’m doing. Escaping, that’s what. Running away, because now I have a friend to run to.
“I don’t care what you look like. Just make sure you’re wearing a smile,” he finally says, soft and reassuring. “Okay?”
That alone makes me smile, even if it’s through the tears still hampering my vision. “Okay,” I concede, hearing the sound of a car door closing.
“I’m on my way, darling.” I hear the smile in his words, and then the line goes dead.
I drop my phone to my chest and breathe in deeply. Someone’s coming to rescue me from my nightmare. Because someone actually cares.
Chapter Eleven
I wander down my street, seeing the glaring headlights of a car parked up ahead. My heartbeat quickens with every step I take, and I stutter in my pace more than once, each time considering turning and running back. I shouldn’t be escaping. I should be cleaning up the mess in the kitchen. It’s a mental debate I’m still having when the driver’s door of his car opens and he steps out. My feet don’t stutter this time. They come to an abrupt halt, watching as he strides around the front of his car, visibly assessing me. In the twenty minutes I had, I only managed to wipe myself down and change into clean jeans and a T-shirt. It’s an improvement, but . . . still. Then again, Luke is still dressed as a fifty’s throwback, so who looks the most absurd is debatable.
“Okay?” he asks cautiously as he sinks his hands into his pockets and widens his stance.
I nod, motioning down my body. “I told you I looked a mess.”
Resting his shoulder against a nearby lamppost, he swallows, and I see his Adam’s apple bob. “You don’t look a mess. But where’s that smile I told you to wear?”
I try. I try with all I have, but I just can’t seem to muster the smile he’s demanded. I’ve never seen Billy like that. He’s never spoken to me in such a way. I’m destroyed by it, and I know Billy will be too. But his frustration and anger is getting the better of him. And now it’s getting the better of me.
Luke pushes off the lamp post by his shoulder and approaches slowly. “I’ll ask again; where’s that smile?” His eyebrows hitch in question. Then he waits patiently. “I’m standing on the street dressed like this, and you can’t smile for me?”
I start to feel the corners of my mouth twitch.
“Go on,” he chants under his breath, his eyes falling to my lips as he bends at the waist, bringing his face closer to mine. “Give me that smile.”
My mouth stretches wide, unable to stop myself from feeding his playfulness.
“There it is.” He smiles himself, satisfied, his bright green eyes shining with a delight that baffles me. “My day has been made.” Straightening to his full height, he flips up the collar of his leather jacket.
I laugh under my breath. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Doing what?” he asks seriously. “Smiling? Laughing?”
I shrug. “Yes, actually.”
“Why?”
Another shrug. “Maybe because I don’t have much to smile about.” I didn’t mean to say that, and I fidget as a result.
He regards me closely for a few seconds, and I can tell he’s trying to surmise why that might be. I look away, worried that he might discover my secrets if he looks deeply enough into my eyes. I mentally plead with him not to ask, but when he draws breath, I fear the worst. I’ll run back home. I’ll avoid that conversation like the plague. I’m happy to let him think whatever he might be thinking, because the alternative is spilling my woes and having him judge me . . . like I’m judging myself. Judging myself for allowing a friend in. Someone to talk to. To laugh with. Someone who doesn’t know of my plight. Someone who doesn’t look at me with dreaded sympathy. Or hatred.
I peek up at Luke and wait. And then he reaches for my face and runs the pad of his thumb under my eye, catching a stray tear. “I promise not to ask,” he whispers quietly, gently. “If you promise to dry these tears.” I give him a small smile. “That’s my girl,” he says, seizing my hand and leading me to his car.
