Page 57 of Unbroken

Devon shook his head and took a swig of his water. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched his Adam’s apple bob with the movement. He recapped the bottle and used the side of his forefinger to wipe the excess water from his lips. Lips surrounded by dark red, nearly brown stubble.

“It’s not a problem. I’m not dependent on alcohol,” he said, leaning back into the couch cushions with his bowl in his hands. “I noticed you haven’t been drinking, so I’m not surprised.”

I followed his lead and made myself comfortable, kicking my feet up onto the couch and tucking them beneath me. The screen had gone dark while I was preparing our food, so I turned it back on.

“Yeah, I stopped…a while ago,” I said, forgetting the exact timeline. “I still drink occasionally if I really want to, but with the anxiety medication I’m on, it’s not the best idea.”

“They can interact?”

“Yeah, and I don’t want to deal with the side effects of that.” What I didn’t say was that I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize the help those meds provided me. I wasn’t naïve, I knew adrink or two every once in a while wouldn’t cause an issue, but I also didn’t want to tread into that unknown water.

Especially when, without the medication, I knew the thoughts would come back. Dark, uncontrollable ones that, when they finally got their hooks in, were impossible to shake.

“I’m good with water or soda,” he said, turning his knowing, hazel eyes on me. I glanced back down at my bowl and picked up the remote. “I just really hate to see you cry.”

Devon’s words startled me. So much so, I nearly dropped the remote.

I thought my heart was going to beat out of my chest until he continued, “And I’ll never let you cry alone.”

Then, I think my heart stopped altogether. “You don’t have to say that. I’m?—”

“I know you’re fine, Blake,” he said, accurately guessing the next word out of my mouth. “And I don’t say things just to say them. I mean it. Every word.”

And I knew he did, which made it more difficult not to lean over and wrap my arms around him and bury my face in the crook of his neck. Imagining it wasn’t helping matters either. But the force it took to look away from him was immense.

Somehow I managed, though. I looked away, cleared my throat, and turned on the movie.

“You cannot truly believe thatThe Conjuringis a better horror movie than a classic likeThe Exorcist.”

Devon raised the hand that wasn’t rubbing Tato’s head in surrender and shrugged. “I’m not saying it’s objectively better or not. I’m saying thatIenjoyed it more,” he argued.

I scoffed and popped a sour gummy worm in my mouth then handed him an orange and green one—the ones I didn’t like, but he happily ate. “You can be wrong then. I guess that’s fine as long as you accept it.”

“I’ll accept it if you agree that of M. Night Shyamalan’s movies,The Villageis better thanSigns.”

I gasped and pressed my hand to my chest like I was offended. But I wasn’t. Both movies were two of my favorites. “There will be noSignsslander in this house.”

“Can we at least agree what the best M. Night Shyamalan is…The Sixth Sense,” we said at the same time. And he mirrored the uncontrollable smile that spread across my face.

We’d finished one movie and moved on to one that neither of us were all that interested in. Hence the argument about our favorite horror movies.

At some point, we’d sunk further into the couch. Devon was lounged back with his feet kicked up on an ottoman I’d pulled over for him. One of his hands was idly rubbing the soft spot on top of Tato’s head while his other draped over my blanket-covered legs that were curled into his side.

We didn’t talk too much through the first movie—both of us were too invested. But we still covered quite a few topics. Like how his sister, Sydney, was doing in her first year of college and his mom’s upcoming appointments.

I didn’t want to talk about my parents, but it undoubtedly came up, as it always did. He asked if they were still as awful as always, and I’d confirmed that they were. I could see that wasn’t all he wanted to ask when he suddenly got quiet, so rather than force him to ask me questions, I told him about how they’d begrudgingly retrieved me from Colorado and taken me back to Arkansas as quietly as possible. Because what was most important to them—especially my mom—was that no one learned that her one and only daughter had gotten herself kidnapped.

“You’re serious?” Devon had asked, and all I could manage was a nod. “Hateful fucking assholes.”

His sadly accurate description of my parents made me laugh, and we moved on to lighter topics. Like asking all the questions I’d been waiting to ask since I returned about every one of our friends.

It was the first time in more than two years that life had felt normal. Or better than normal.

Devon shifted and picked up his phone that had been lying face down on the coffee table. The time flashed across the screen, and I hadn’t realized how late it was.

“I should probably head home,” he said, and although I knew it was coming, it wasn’t any less disappointing. Miserable attempts at pointless excuses flitted through my mind. None of them made any sense, but I still searched anyway. Because hours with Devon weren’t nearly enough.

Without a good reason why he should stay and several very good reasons why he shouldn’t, I found myself saying, “Sure.”

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