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Chapter Twelve
Rest wasn’t designed for the wicked. Before Birdie, a rotted soul kept me awake every night. I lost another piece of myself every day, and night only reminded me that part of me would never come home. I’d spent teenage years trying to avoid it, trying to mitigate it, trying to numb it out. The gang gave me a place to put it to good use, brothers becoming an old home. The first time I everreallyslept was the first night I saved Bridget, that first night after the bus stop. That was when I realized what it felt like to come home.
I wasn’t worthless if I was protecting her.
I wasn’t worthless if she saw the worth in me.
The cold jolted me awake. Aching joints tore me out of bed, and my hands searched for the body that was supposed to be next to me. My body screamed for her, and when all it found was an empty bed, I jerked again. I could barely stand as I stumbled out into the hallway, as I passed through the door I’d left unlocked the night before. Blurred memories told me I’d left my car keys on the table, that enough time had passed for Birdie to survive the trip into town. As I stumbled forward, I prepared for the worst.
I’d never be prepared for those eyes, though.
Birdie never looked so divine as when she stood in my kitchen, watching me as she worked another spoonful of sugar into her coffee. It was the same golden eyes that had always watched me, had always known me, and for just a moment, Birdie could see the hurt that still lived so peacefully in my bones. Those eyes knew the rot of my soul just as well as I did. Which means, when her smile finally came, she must have known the comfort it brought, too.
Her eyes fell to her drink. “What kind of a heathen only has instant?”
Seamlessly, she moved back into her own world— the one I’d been so desperate to be a part of. Dressed in nothing but my sweatshirt and her cotton panties, Birdie rooted through my fridge. Though, it wasn’t my cock that ached as I stepped closer. My attention drew to the folder she’d left open on the kitchen table. From the top of the pile, a photo of Josh in his white gown stared back at me. While I slept, Birdie had been digging through my belongings, but it wasn’t the betrayal that stopped my heart. If she read close enough, she might have seen evidence of the truth.
The timeline proved Josh couldn’t have done this.
Omar had already promised me Tristan was clean.
Yesterday afternoon, the police announced my worst fear: there was no stranger in the woods.
“And you’re almost out of sugar.”
My stomach knotted as I snapped the folder shut. “I don’t drink coffee anymore.” I could feel Birdie’s eyes burning into me, but maybe that morsel was enough. Ididn’tdrink coffee anymore. All it did was remind me of those afternoons together. The scent made my chest tighten, an ache for the things I’d missed out on.
Rest only came with her hum of understanding. A swift movement pulled Birdie up to sit on my counter, her coffee seated in her lap and her legs kicking out childishly. When I looked up, I half expected to see the new Birdie, this girl who had become so adept at managing the hurt and the horror. Instead, as her gaze fell to the mug in her hands, I caught sight of the girl I met all those years ago. She looked sad— or the closest Birdie had ever come to it.
She was avoiding something.
“He doesn’t look like he used to.” Her lips gathered to the side with another thought, her head jerking upward. “He doesn’tsoundlike he used to.”
“It’s been six years. People change.”
“We didn’t change.” The answer came out so smoothly, so effortlessly, that Birdie wouldn’t give it much thought. Until her cheeks tinted, at least. A hand brushed auburn hair behind her ear, and Birdie gave me the same nervous laugh she used to give me. “He just seems different, is all.”
When the sickness first came, I’d have done anything to avoid it. Memories of Josh only brought memories of this rot, of all the reasons I wasn’t meant to be in her life anymore. I pushed my attention to the second cup of coffee that Birdie left on the counter, but cream and sugar couldn’t drown it out for long. If Josh had changed, ifBirdiehad changed, it was my fault. The only thing I was good for was watching out for her. That night with Josh taught us both that the only way I couldtrulyprotect her was if I wasn’t near her.
But then you fucked her.
Then you broke her forever.
My stomach twisted. I wanted her smile, her warmth, but when I finally looked up to Birdie, the only thing I saw was the mess I’d left behind. She wouldn’t look at me. Golden orbs were trained straight ahead, and, lost in her own thought, Birdie stole another sip of her coffee.
“Josh has always been a little difficult.”
The sickness threatened to crawl up my throat, but practiced determination swallowed it back down. ‘A little difficult’ wasn’t how I’d describe Josh. A fucking degenerate would be a good place to start, a disgusting dog would be a close second. To Birdie, men like Josh were just misunderstood— as though there was some explanation that would make forcing himself on her okay. I would never have sympathy for Josh. The only reason the fuck was still alive was because Birdie begged for it, because it was her last request.
If you had ended it, this never would have happened.
A shiver forced the only truth I had out my lips. “Damaged people attract damaged people.”
“No wonder we’re friends.” The building snarl snapped my head to the side, but Birdie’s playful smile relaxed it back into my stomach. Looking ahead again, she refocused on her coffee. “He reminds me of Tristan,” she admitted. “The way he used to be, at least.”
“He thinks you’re dating.” The hiss made her lips screw to the side, as though we were in on some kind of joke together. The smile wouldn’t soothe me— not when the boy’s words still lived so clearly in my head. “He’d give you a normal life.”
“Can’t imagine his father would much approve.” Her smile only grew when my eyes danced back up to her. No part of me could imagine a single reason someone wouldn’t love Birdie the second they saw her, but a gentle blush reminded me the world was never quite as simple as she made it out to be. Birdie waved her hand in response, motioning to the scars that littered her arms, her face. “His dad owns that dentist office off Ryerson Boulevard,” she explained. “And you don’t exactly want to bring a circus freak to the yacht club.”
