Page 10 of Damnation
Thomas picks up my gym bag and slings it over his shoulder. “I’ve got practice in two hours. I’ll take you.”
I smile tenderly at him, pleased that he wants to spend more time with me, and accept his offer. We leave the apartment and stop at the elevator. I’d like to take his hand, but despite the night we just spent together and the care he’s shown me, I’m still afraid of overreaching. So I stop myself.
When the doors open, a group of boys emerges, and it’s only when Thomas and I step in that I notice Logan leaning against the wall. His hand is pressed to his ribs; his face is pale and covered in bruises…so many that it hurts just looking at him. My breath catches.
My God.
His lower lip is split, his right cheekbone is swollen, and his eye on that side is half shut with a shiner so puffy the pale blue of his iris is barely visible. My stomach tightens until it feels like I can’t even swallow. I am overwhelmed by guilt—I can’t help but think that none of this would have happened if I’d just left that room sooner last night.
Logan lifts his head with difficulty, as though even this small movement causes him incredible pain. In the briefest moment when our eyes meet, I see an expression on his face that I never would have expected. He seems almost pleasantly surprised. He even smiles slightly at me, but seeing Thomas next to me, his face becomes grave again.
Thomas firmly entwines his fingers with mine and pulls me behind him, almost like he means to shield me with his body. “Get the fuck out of here,” he says to Logan in the kind of voice that would make anyone shiver.
Logan doesn’t need to be told twice. Wearing a grimace of pain that intensifies with every step he takes, he walks past us. He casts a furtive glance over his shoulder at me just before the doors close. After planting myself beside Thomas, I stare at him for a long moment, certain he can feel my eyes on him. But he ignores me, choosing instead to glare at the reinforced steel doors of the elevator.
“Thomas…”
He cuts me off, gritting his teeth. “Don’t start.” He doesn’t even bother to look at me. He presses the button for the ground floor, and down we go. I move in front of him, forcing him to look at me.
“He looks bad, Thomas…really bad,” I insist. “Tell me the truth: Where did you go last night? Did you go find him?” Only now, with his jaw clenched tight, does he finally lower his eyes to me and give me his full attention. But seeing the ferocity of his gaze, I almost wish he didn’t. He neither confirms nor denies anything but instead just stares at me, leaving me to draw my own conclusions.
The elevator makes a sound indicating we’ve just passed another floor, and I feel the panic rising inside me. “Do you realize he could press charges?” I whisper, not even knowing why, since we’re alone in here.
He lifts one side of his mouth mockingly as he crosses his arms over his chest. “I hope he does. I’m dying to make him taste his own blood again.”
“You cannot be serious.”
He gazes at me with the look of a man who has zero scruples. Italways freaks me out to be reminded that Thomas isn’t only the guy who takes me ice skating in the middle of the night just to see me smile, but he’s alsothis. Impetuous, ruthless, remorseless. Completely out of control.
“Listen to me…” I take his face in my hands, standing up on my tiptoes to do it. “I understand that you are still furious about what happened; I am too. But you should not underestimate the seriousness of this situation. His father is a judge. You could get in trouble. Serious trouble. Maybe if I talked to him, I could keep him from—”
“You’re not talking to him,” he orders, looming over me, his voice harsh. “If he wants to press charges, let him, but I bet my ass he won’t dare, so stop worrying about it.” The elevator doors open on the ground floor. “Seems to me, you’ve got more important things to worry about anyway.” He takes my hands from his face, skewering me with a look that brooks no argument. Then he walks out of the elevator, unconcerned about whether I follow him.
He heads for the dorm’s exit, and before he can go through it without me, I run out of the elevator to him. “Thomas, wait,” I say, grabbing his arm and turning him in my direction. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m scared because I don’t want anything to happen to you. I don’t want anything to happen to anyone because of me ever again. But I especially don’t want to argue with you, not today, not after everything that happened last night. I couldn’t stand it.” He just stares down at me reproachfully. “Please,” I murmur, my voice cracking.
It is then that he sighs, relaxing his shoulders. “I don’t want to argue with you either.” His features soften almost imperceptibly. “C’mon, I’ll take you home.”
Neither of us says much during the car ride. I try to keep my mind busy, pushing aside any thoughts about my mother or about Logan’s condition, but it’s fruitless. I start gnawing my thumbnail, feeling my anxiety increase with every mile, each one of them bringing me closer to my house. Or rather, my mother’s house.
Pulling into the driveway, which is still wet from last night’s storm, I stare out the window at the porch, where I sat hours ago. It’s thesame porch where I spent whole summers sunbathing, reading, or just tending to the peonies. Thomas turns off the engine and rests his hand on my thigh. “Still sure?”
I continue looking at the house, worrying at my lip. I have to do this. I straighten my shoulders as if to give myself courage, and I swallow hard. I unbuckle my seat belt and get out of the car without answering his question.
***
Inside the house, silence reigns. We both leave our bags on the floor, and I put my keys in the bowl on the entryway cabinet. Together, we walk through the kitchen on our way upstairs, but I stop and turn toward Thomas. “Are you hungry? You have practice in less than two hours, and you shouldn’t go on an empty stomach.”
“I’ve got these.” He shows me the pack of cigarettes he always has on him. “All I need.”
“And a real booster for your lungs,” I answer sarcastically, pushing him into the dining area. He grins at me while he sits on a stool at the kitchen island. I open the fridge and find it well stocked. “Is there anything you want to eat? I don’t know, a sandwich? Maybe some eggs? Aren’t athletes obsessed with protein?”
“A sandwich will be fine.”
My lips curve into a smile as I get busy. I take everything I need out of the fridge before washing my hands and rinsing the tomatoes in cold water. In a frying pan, I toast two thick slices of bread while I cut the bacon into strips. While I wait for everything to cook to perfection, I grab a plate, put it on the table, and start slicing the tomatoes.
“Are you a good cook?” he asks me, intrigued.
“Good enough. When I was a kid, I liked to watch my grandma or my mother in the kitchen whenever I could.”
