Page 129 of Look, Don't Touch

There are tears in her eyes.

I know Laurent is waiting for her.

“You think I helped you, Hay.” Her head shakes. “It’s you who helped me. You kept me grounded and gave me something to live for when so many of my friends and colleagues wasted their talents on drugs and shitty men.”

“Then we helped each other.” I push myself to sit. My muscles protest, quivering from malnutrition and screaming from overuse. Something dry heaving for hours on end will do to a body. “Now, I have to help myself.”

I’ve relied on my crutches for too long. My aunt. My career. My addiction. I have to find a way to face my issues head-on or risk losing myself completely.

A tear slips from her eyes. I wipe it away.

“I’ll see you in a month.” I eye the far side of the living room that leads to the door. “Christmas in the South of France will be magical. It will be warm and beautiful. A new tradition.” And the only way she agreed to keep her plans to move.

Nat wraps her arms around me and hugs me close.

It’s not that I don’t love her. It’s not that I don’t value her affection. It’s just that I don’t feel anything beyond sorrow and bone-deep exhaustion, though I’ve slept for the past twelve hours.

“Astor will check on you this afternoon,” she says, standing and straightening her outfit.

It’s one o’clock in the afternoon already. It was hard enough to get her to leave after the incident in the early morning hours.

“Tell her not to. Maybe tomorrow. But not today.”

My aunt’s brow pinches in worry.

“Stop.” I hold up my hand with the blanket wrapped around it. “I’m not going to hurt myself. I just need some time to process.”

“Text me before you go to sleep?”

“I’ll text you tomorrow.”

She draws a deep breath, expanding her narrow chest, then slowly lets it out. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Slowly, she walks backward toward the door, giving me all the opportunity to call her back to my side, where she’s been since I was a kid.

I give her a wave and listen as she goes.

If this were before midnight two days ago, I’d be bawling my eyes out and holding tight to Arlo.

It isn’t. I’m not.

As if my beautiful fairy tale struck midnight, everything crumbled around me. All the walls I’d erected. Gone. All the coping mechanisms I’d perfected over the years. Vanished.

With the attack and the swing of a fist, I’d experienced the most devastating panic attack of my entire life. They made the ones in the hospital after my parents’ murders seem like child’s play.

And here I am, a raw nerve ending, exposed to the world.

There are hundreds of texts and notifications on my socials.

I don’t care about people’s reactions to or opinions on the incident. I don’t care about its effect on next year's gala, which will probably garner more attendants than ever because of the debacle. I don’t care about the pictures of me retching on the floor.

I care about the damage it has done to my relationship.

Arlo wants to speak to me. He wants to apologize.

I can’t let that happen.

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