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For half a second, I want to shut myself inside the bathroom and barricade the door. I've seen way too many freak outs out in my life. But my feet seem glued to the oriental rug as I listen to Hunter coming down the hall. The rhythm of his footsteps is unsteady, but there's no more shouting. He stops, and I hear a loud bang that reminds me, eerily, of Cross's fist against the wall that night at Hunter's house party. I hear a muttered curse, followed by the sound of a door swishing open, then slamming shut.
I stand doe-still, barely even breathing as shuffling sounds start to come from the room next door. A creaking sound that reminds me of a drawer being opened. A slamming sound. A few heavy footsteps. The unmistakable sound of something shattering.
I'm shaking now. Sometimes Mom got drunk or wasted and broke things. Sometimes in proximity to me. It's not that she meant to hurt me; she simply never noticed I was there. Once, when I was nine, I had to have stitches in my left eyebrow because a piece of a glass bowl caught me as I came into the kitchen to make sure she didn’t hurt herself.
I don't want to go into Hunter's room this time, but just like last night, I can't seem to stop myself. I'm sweating, my fingers trembling as I wrap my hand around the doorknob. I know better than to knock. Angry people almost universally want to be left alone—only when they're breaking things, they probably shouldn't be.
As I turn the doorknob, I remind myself that he isn't doing drugs. He isn't drinking. At least not like my mom does. He's upset because someone he knows died.
Or maybe he killed them.
“Shut up,” I murmur to myself. He didn't kill Sarabelle. He was playing televised poker for the last two nights, and last night he was here with me.
I take a fortifying breath and throw the door open. At first, I'm not sure I'm in the right room. What, last night, stood out to me as a large space with elegant, imposing furniture is now a clothes tornado. I immediately notice his huge dresser is missing two of its drawers, and atop the dresser, I can see a picture frame lying face-down, surrounded by bits of broken glass.
A quick glance around the room reveals Hunter standing by his hulking, four-post bed, pawing through a sea of undershirts and boxer briefs. Mixed in with the crimson pillows and blankets of his bed are two hefty dresser drawers. He's bent over, arms moving in a frenzy as he throws clothes every which way.
He doesn't even glance up as I step closer. He doesn't seem to know I'm here. His face twists in fury, and he grabs one of the drawers with both hands and hurls it at his headboard, where it bounces off and lands on a pile of pillows.
“Hunter?”
He's breathing hard, his face white, his mouth and eyes standing out vibrantly against his skin.
He straightens, shoulders heaving as he sucks back air. He looks so furious, it's like he's in a daze. He's not looking at me, but rather at something in front of him. Something behind me.
Without moving a muscle or glancing my way, he whispers, "Go away."
I follow his vacant gaze to the wall behind me and find that he is staring at a mirror. Staring blankly at himself. No, not blankly. Desolately.
As I watch, he leans down against his bed, elbows on the mattress, face going into his palms as his shoulders hunch and one of his hands tunnels back through his messy hair.
Oh, Hunter. “I heard about Sarabelle.”
He straightens, whirling toward me. His mouth is twisted into a bitter pinch, and his eyes are harder than I think I've ever seen.
"I'm so sorry. I know you knew her.”
“You don't know the half of it,” he murmurs hoarsely.
“I'm sure that's true.” I hold his gaze. “I know you're upset, but throwing things won't help," I say softly.
"Nothing will." I watch the edge in his eyes fade back into dazed desolation, and I take two steps closer. When he doesn't react, I close the distance between us and gently touch his elbow.
He jumps a little. “Jesus, Libby.” He lifts up his hand, like he's going to touch me, but instead he takes an unsteady step back. “You need to get your shit and go. Just go.”
"I don't want to go yet." I want to wrap my arms around him, but he grabs my hand. His fingers grip me hard and his pretty eyes grow tortured. "I can't make any promises...unless you go. Sometimes when I'm upset, I..."
"Throw things?"
He swallows, and my eyes rake over his body. I can't miss the erection straining against his jeans.
"Sometimes when you're upset, you want to have sex?" I whisper.
He nods, just barely.
"That night at your house, you were upset, weren't you? I saw your room. There was a broken glass and the pillows were all over the floor." That was just after I'd heard him having sex with Priscilla. “Hunter...what's going on with you? I'm worried.”
His eyes slide over me, and I think it's the most honest I've ever seen him look. I'm reminded, oddly, of an angry, despondent child before he reaches out and grips my shoulder. “You should leave.” His voice is hoarse and low. “Libby, please. Turn around and leave.”
