Page 180 of It Should Have Been You

Her gaze on me narrows, and I hope she can’t read the panic seeping from every pore. “I’m calling Logan.”

I almost dive across the counter when she reaches for her phone. “Don’t.” Heat rushes up my neck when people throw us curious glances. I lower my voice. “I’ll deal with it. He’ll get all caveman and make it worse. Please,” I beg.

“Fine, but if he gives you any trouble, I won’t think twice.”

I try to thank her, but I can already feel the break bubbling in my throat so instead, I smile and hope it looks genuine. Heart hammering, I follow Benjamin outside.

I don’t give him the chance to speak. “I told you I have nothing to say.”

He shrugs, and credit to him, he looks remorseful as he holds out his hand. My eyes fall to the Polaroid gripped between his fingers, the date on the back written in my handwriting.

I try to control my breathing.

“What?” I snap, frustration bubbling in my gut.

“You told me to come back when I had proof.”

No.

I want to scream it. I want to release the burn in my lungs, the panic creeping up my spine until my shoulders are so stiff, they hurt.

I don’t take the picture, so he flips it over, and I swear the street starts crumbling in around me. But I need to stay standing. He can’t see what’s screaming at me from the inside.

I stand tall, rolling my shoulders. There’s no face in the photo, just a badly captured picture of a back, painful bruises marring almost every inch of skin.

There’s no tears either.

No lifeless eyes.

But I feel the hope draining anyway.

Keeping my eyes focused on the picture for one, two, three seconds, I lift my gaze again.

“What are you showing me?”

The wrinkles around his eyes deepen as he squints. “Are you telling me this isn’t you?”

“I have no idea who that is.” The answer comes too fast, and he knows it.

I want to steady my voice, stop my hands from trembling, but everything is on fire. All I really want to do is run and never look back.

I chew my bottom lip to hide how it’s shaking.

“There’s more,” he informs me, sympathy dripping from every word.

I don’t need his sympathy. I need him to leave me alone.

“It’s not me,” I repeat.

I want to ask where he got the picture, but all hope of him believing me will evaporate.

“I need you to leave me alone. I have nothing to say. I don’t know who is in that picture but it’s not me.” I spin around as a single tear betrays me and streaks my cheek.

I close my eyes, begging the world to stop when his gentle touch presses to my elbow, keeping me frozen to one spot. “Just one comment.”

I close my eyes, fighting more tears as they threaten to fall. “Please leave me alone.” I’m almost begging because those pictures make everything come flooding back, like I’m in the ocean and sinking beneath the waves. Every second, I’m losing my footing more and more.

I’m drowning.

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