Page 15 of Still Beating

I think I see him shrug. “You got quiet. That usually means you’re deep in thought or piecing together a creative insult to throw at me.”

I look right at him, and I’m pretty sure we’re unabashedly staring at each other—but since I can’t say for certain, I don’t break away. “I was thinking about the mess we made of Mandy’s party a couple of years ago and how any plan we come up with can’t possibly go well.”

His laugh startles me because it’s real and genuine. I’m not expecting it.

“You were definitely in charge of the invitations,” he informs me, as if this argument hasn’t been dredged up a million times before now.

“Lies. You’ll never admit it, will you? Ispecificallyput you in charge of invitations because you had more involvement with her social life. Plus, I was already in charge of the catering, cake, and DJ.”

“I had alcohol duty. I was clearly overwhelmed with responsibility and under a ton of stress.”

My eyebrows raise with skepticism.

“I still don’t understand why your mom wouldn’t just let us create a Facebook event like the rest of the world,” Dean finishes.

I groan and roll my eyes back. Even though no one showed up to the party becausesomeoneforgot to send out invitations, it was still a memorable night of Chinese takeout and horror movies around the fireplace. A nostalgic smile sweeps across my face. “At least she got to celebrate this year before…” My voice trails off as I look away. The lighthearted atmosphere dissipates when the reality of our situation sinks back in. I pull my legs to my chest and press my cheek to my kneecaps. “I’m going to try and sleep. I have a feeling whatever is in store for me tomorrow will mentally exhaust me.”

I shudder at the memory of Earl between my legs, stealing away my faith in humanity. I’m confident my light will be entirely snuffed out if there is ever an end to this persecution. There is no going back to my former self.

Dean whispers at me through the dark after my words leave a foreboding chill in the air. “Goodnight, Cora.”

My breath catches on the inhale. “Goodnight.”

The minutes tick by. I count them.

Six minutes and thirty-five seconds.

It’s too quiet, which means my brain is loud and turbulent. It refuses to rest—and I don’t blame it, really. I swallow down my pride, burying my face further into the valley between my knees. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

I wet my lips and close my eyes. I can’t believe I’m asking him this, but it’s easier to be vulnerable in the dark…and when you have nothing to lose.“Can you sing to me?”

My belly swims with nerves, and I wonder if my request is too intimate. Too bold. Maybe I’m asking too much of someone who isn’t even my friend. But the sound of his voice, all gravel and grit, singing my favorite song, lulled me to sleep earlier, and I’m desperate for a few hours of peace. I need to dream myself out of this prison.

Dean is silent for a few heartbeats, and I’m worried he’s going to ignore me. Shut me down. I’m about to apologize, backtrack, tell him to forget about it, but then he replies:

“Any requests?”

A calming sensation washes over me and my body relaxes. “You can singHey Judeagain if you want. It’s my favorite.”

“I know,” he says softly.

He knows? We’ve never discussed our favorite songs with each other before. I’ve never cared to know his favoriteanything, and I assumed he felt the same way. But I suppose when you know someone for fifteen years, whether you like them or not, you’re bound to pick up on little things along the way.

When his voice infiltrates the darkness and fills the silence with rich music, I find myself drifting away almost instantly. It’s something familiar. Something beautiful. Something good I can latch onto, absorb, and get lost in. I hum the verses into my knees right along with him until sleep eventually takes over and whisks me someplace else.

I dream about the ocean again.

The water is lapping at my toes, pulling me in like a magnet. Beckoning me with its depth and mystery. Tempting me with its lifeforce.

I jump in.

And I swim away.

Before I know it, a beam of light is caressing the side of my face and I begin to stir. My neck is stiff and sore, and I almost cry out in pain as I lift my head from my knees. I instinctively try to raise my hand and massage away the kink, but I’m denied the privilege when my cuffs catch against the pole—a sinister reminder of my predicament.

Of my hell.

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