Page 33 of Moving Forward

“Well, luckily it isn’t your party, right Zoey?” Erin says icily, waddling in behind Max.

There are a lot of things that trigger me, and Erin is one of them. She takes me back to those shitty moments when I was so fucked up I didn’t care who it was I was hurting. Erin had been there for most of my shit before she left my sorry ass, something I will never blame her for. I wanted to leave myself.

Her lips curl up into a smile. After Ethan had recovered, she showed up on my doorstep with that same smile on her face. It’s not a hateful smile like the one I know I deserve. It’s sympathetic and pitying. What’s worse is that after all the crap I put her through, that smile is just as effortless as anyone else’s hatred might be. I forgive you, she told me. I’ll give you space, but I’m always here if you need me.

“Cain—”

I shake my head and push past them, past Erin’s smile, past Zoey’s disdain. Past Max . . .

I can’t even let myself think about her right now. Whatever she thinks of me or however she sees me . . . it’s for the best. For me and for her. She’d be better off without me.

By the time I make it to the dock, I’m in a haze, grinding my hand into my arm until I don’t feel anything but the searing burn and warm blood. I need something—anything—to stop the thoughts that are infiltrating my head, taking me back in time.

My mom’s lifeless and mangled body hunched over the steering wheel. Glass and blood everywhere, like mosaic tiles.

My grandpa serving a customer a cup of coffee, his hearty laugh filling the room, then silence as he gripped his chest and fell to the floor.

My dad—a vulture—glaring as he screamed, “You think you’re better than me? You’re worthless.”

I’m.

Worthless.

Arms wrap around my waist and pull my hands down to my side. My knuckles are bare and bleeding, with an identical red Rorschach test on the boat in front of me. I don’t know when I started or how long I’ve been punching the wall.

My body goes taut, refusing to be comforted. I need to go through this—the pain and the suffering. Life is punishment. If it wasn’t, I’d be the dead one.

Surprisingly, Max is a lot stronger than her tiny frame suggests. Adrenaline, maybe. She runs her hands down the sides of my arms, twining our fingers together. She doesn’t do anything except place her cheek against my back, breathing nearly as hard as I am.

“Go away,” I grumble. I need to continue pushing through my rage. That’s the tactic I’ve had for years—ride it out until it’s finished. It’s the only way I’ve ever known to deal with the insurmountable hate and gut-clenching pain. What scares me is that for once, it doesn’t feel like enough. I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t know how to make it all stop.

Max leans further against me and I feel her tears start to soak through my shirt. “No,” she answers sternly.

I lean my head back, staring up at the cloudless sky, but not really seeing it. “Please,” I say. “I need it to stop, Max. I just need it to stop.” My entire body shudders and the next thing I know I’m sobbing, something I haven’t done since that day. “I just need . . .”

She presses a soft kiss against my shoulder. “I know, I know.”

Her words, coupled with her body against mine, make me think that maybe I’ve been seeking the wrong outlets.

Maybe she’s what I need.

I finally regain control and turn around, wrapping my arms around her. She buries her face in my chest, and I lay my cheek on her head, breathing her in. The night I held her like she was just holding me doesn’t even come close to this. This is perfection.

“I’m not going to ask you what just happened,” she tells me in a muffled voice.

I sigh. “Thank you.” I can’t talk about it, even with her. If I try, I’m afraid I won’t be able to put myself back together.

She leans back and places her palm against my cheek, guiding my face toward hers. “But please, please don’t ever do that again. You scared me, Cain.”

I realize one of her hands is shaking. The other is still holding onto mine, fingers pressing against my pulse point. I know I can’t make her any promises. I still want to cut my arm open, and I know that the next time she isn’t around and something happens, I’ll do it. I always do.

“You shouldn’t hurt yourself,” she tells me sternly. She brings my bloody hand up between us and gives it a long, hard stare.

I look away, refusing to face my hand’s carnage. My gaze falls on the stupid blood on my boat. That’s another place I’ll have to repaint if it doesn’t wash off.

“Hey,” she says. Her hand turns my face again. “You have me now, okay?”

I pray that’s the truth. Losing her would be the last straw. Max already owns me.

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