Page 59 of Last Boy

“Do you not remember when my face was buried between your thighs and I was eating your pussy like a fucking ice cream sundae?”

“You’re annoying!” she hisses. “No girl, especially one who’s been attacked two freaking days ago, wants to be in the tub, thinking they are allllll alone, and then realize that someone is looking at them.” She gives me an annoyed look. “Even if we did…you know…the other day. Still, it’s weird.”

I instantly feel really fucking bad. “Sorry,” I mutter. “I…I just didn’t know where you were. And then when I yelled, you didn’t answer.” I shrug, dragging my hand up the back of my neck to the top of my head. “I got worried. I wasn’t trying to creep you out.” Turning, I take a step toward the door. “I got you some clothes. I’ll put them on the bed for when you get out.”

“Walker,” she says softly.

I don’t turn around. Instead, I just stop. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think you’re creepy. I’m just…overly sensitive, I guess. And, well, bitchy.” She sighs. “But you already knew that last part.”

I swallow, inhaling sharply. Of course she’s overly sensitive right now. And how fucking dumb am I to be so inconsiderate of that?

“No worries. I’ll, uh, try to be better.”

Walking out of the bathroom, I close the door behind me.

Poppy

Looking in the mirror, I run the brush that magically appeared in the bedroom through my hair and glance at the new loungewear Walker picked up.

Six sets of new pajamas and loungewear outfits. A bunch of black leggings. A Wolves crewneck sweatshirt—my size. And lying on the bed is a gorgeous black dress and a pair of simple black heels. Oh, and every pair of panties I could think of, as well as a few new bras.

How he got the sizes right on everything, I have no freaking clue.

I go with the gray-and-white striped lounge pants, which are as soft as a feather, and a matching tank top. After looking like a slob for a few days, I’m still in pajamas, but at least my clothes and I are clean.

He got all of this for me, and I called the guy a creep.

I feel awful for what I said. It just…came out.

When I opened my eyes, at first, my vision was a little blurry, and I just made out a figure. I panicked, and even once I realized it was Walker, I was a complete bitch.

Walking out of the bedroom, I find him on the couch, flipping through the channels mindlessly. And when I take a seat at the other end of the couch, he doesn’t look my way.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his gaze fixed on the screen.

“I feel okay. The bath felt nice.” His mouth opens to speak, so I stop him. “And before you ask, no, I didn’t let the cut on my face get too wet.”

“Good.” He nods, stopping the TV on a cooking show. “Every time I see a show like this, it reminds me of Van.” There’s a sadness in his voice that can’t be mistaken, and even his eyes seem to glass over a bit. “I hope he’s somewhere in heaven, running his own restaurant.”

A lump lodges in my throat, burning and making my eyes water. Though I’m pretty sure the real reason my eyes are watering is because I’m trying to fight off crying again. I cried so hard the night Van died. It was the first time in years, and I felt everything.

I’m not ready to feel things that deep again. It was horrific. And exhausting.

And it made me feel weak.

But right now, I’m having a hard time fighting it. Because I’m seeing Walker. Really seeing him. And what I see is a man who’s in pain.

Just like me.

“Yeah, me too,” my voice squeaks. “I wish he could have done it in real life though.”

He looks down, his head hanging. “Yeah, me too.” He sniffs. “I should have never left him. I shouldn’t have been so selfish.” His chest heaves. “I’m so fucking sorry, Poppy. I…I didn’t know what else to do.”

Walker didn’t fall apart the night that Van died. I did, and he glued me together, ragged edges and all. And he didn’t fall apart when we sprinkled his ashes.

But right now, he’s going to fall apart.

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