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My heart beat rapidly.
Twenty seconds.
"Ricky?" Her voice sounded raw from how long she must have spent crying.
"Hey." I smiled, rubbing small circles on the back of her hand. She blinked several times, as if trying to clear the tears from her eyes. As she surveyed the room, her brows furrowed together as she took in the scene before her.
The curtains were ripped from the rod and paint was smeared all over the carpet and her bed. Broken glass and water from a vase were scattered on the floor before the window, the vase once filled with pink roses, carnations, lilies, and sunflowers, the flowers now all ripped in half. My gaze swept over her body, searching for any indications of harm. It was then that I realized the soles of her feet were covered in blood.
"Scar, can I look at your feet?" It took a minute or two, but she finally nodded. I carefully took her feet in my hands and noticed tiny shards of glass sticking out from her skin. With a steady hand, I delicately plucked each shard out.
I turned to Scar’s mom. “Can you please bring me a washcloth and bandages?”
A few seconds later, she returned with the items I requested. After cleaning and wrapping both of Scar's injured feet, she tilted her head and stared at me without any signs of emotion. I swallowed the lump in my throat, wondering if she might be getting ready to have a second episode, but she surprised me when she climbed into my lap and sobbed.
"I'm sorry," she cried in the crook of my neck.
"Shh. You have nothing to be sorry about." I rubbed my hands up and down her back to soothe her.
After her cries subsided, I readjusted her body in my lap by pulling her legs to either side of me as I lay against the wall for support. I started to hum “Lost Boy” by Ruth B—a tune she sang while she painted. Music and painting had always been her outlet to express her emotions or to hold them back just enough to ease the pain.
Scar giggled at my attempt to sing. She jumped in and finished the chorus. Her voice sounded angelic, and it sent goosebumps up my body whenever she hit a particular note.
That was the day I knew Ineededher toneedme.
EIGHT
THE PAST
MAVERICK AGE 22, SCAR AGE 16
"Dude, seriously! Grab the other end of the wheel." Mason grunted while trying to load the dirt bikes onto the back of my truck.
"I am," I growled, sweat bleeding down my face.
It’s fall break, and we decided to spend the weekend at Seth’s family cabin.
I looked up when I heard Seth’s front door open. Seth jogged down the steps and strutted toward us with his gear.
"What's up?" he greeted me with his chin.
I tipped my chin back up to him.
We finally got the damn bike onto the bed of my truck with his help. Mason jumped off the back, planting his feet on the ground. He leaned forward with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
"You alright, man?" I grinned, wiping the sweat off my forehead.
"Yeah." He looked up at me." You asshole," he grumbled when he noticed my grin, shaking his head, trying not to laugh.
We loaded the truck with coolers, gear, and duffel bags. As I checked the straps on the bikes, ensuring they were secure, Kaleb laughed like a hyena. When I saw him walking from Seth's house with Scar under his arms, he pulled her closer to his side. She was laughing at whatever he whispered in her ear. She looked adorable, and standing next to him, she seemed smaller than usual.
My hand gripped the side of the truck as I watched my good friend withmyTinkerbelle.
"Hey, Ricky." Her voice pulled me away from the image of ripping my friend's arms off his body.
"Hey, Scar." She blushed when I gave her a winsome smile and a wink.
She had her curly blonde hair styled in a Dutch braid. Her itty-bitty white shorts with fringe at the hem and cropped tank top with thin straps showcased her belly button ring. She had on worn-out skull and crossbones Chucks. My mouth salivated at her tiny waist and smooth, pale skin. Mason cleared his throat from beside me when he noticed I'd been staring at Scar for longer than usual.
