Page 57 of Healing You
“Apparently, yes.”
“No, you're not. Be serious. We'll go back into the party and Kyra can take you home.”
She snorted at that, shaking her head. “Kyra's been drinking.”
“Ronnie, then.”
“Oh, yeah. That'll go over well. She'd dump me in the lake if she could. Because apparently I'm the one who broke your heart. Like she conveniently forgot that you were the one who abandoned me in the hospital and then refused all my calls.”
“Dammit,” he muttered, grabbing his cell and pulling up Kyra's number. She was right that Kyra had been drinking, but he didn't know who else to call right then.
“Steve!” Kyra giggled, answering.
“Kyra, I need you—” He stopped himself, feeling the emotion choking high in his throat. “Yvonne needs you to take her home.”
“Why?” she asked, her voice suddenly sober. “What happened?”
“Yvonne's trying to walk home and she's drunk and in heels—”
“I'll be there in two seconds.”
“Can you drive?”
“I'll get someone to drive my car. You're with her?”
“Yeah. On Main Street.”
A few minutes later Steve saw headlights pulling up behind them. Kyra jumped out of the passenger seat of her car, pulling a shawl around her shoulders, and she rushed over to Yvonne, handing her a cardigan.
He knew Yvonne would react badly... but he hadn't expected this. Looking behind him, he saw Nick Forrester get out from behind Kyra's front seat. He seemed equally concerned. Steve gave him a quick nod—thank you? Hello? A little of both perhaps?
Ahead, Kyra and Yvonne were speaking quietly and Yvonne shoved her arms clumsily into the sweater. Makeup stained her cheeks in dark streaks and her eyes were red. She blinked wet, spiky eyelashes and nibbled on her nail as Kyra whispered something to her.
Gathering courage, Steve walked closer. Somewhere nearby one lone cricket sang to them with a chirping melody. Kyra curled her arms around Yvonne, guiding her back toward the car.
“I'll check on you tomorrow,” Steve said as they passed.
A moment passed between the two girls, some unspoken best friend language. Kyra looked up at him and he saw the waves of disappointment in her eyes come crashing over him. “No, Steve,” she said. Her words were firm, but not altogether unkind. “I got this.”
Kyra put Yvonne in the back seat and within seconds, they were driving off. Time slowed as the car passed him, Yvonne in the backseat, her wet eyes shrewd and sharp beneath the tears, like a sword waiting just below the water's surface, ready to pierce and slice him open.
Steve walked the couple of blocks back to Giuseppe's parking lot and fell into his car, shutting the door and dropping his head to the steering wheel. The leather was cool against his clammy forehead and he moved his palm over his heart, clenching a fistful of his shirt and skin. Fuck, this hurt. He knew it would. He knew what he was in for. And yet, bracing for impact didn't lessen the blow. It hadn't physically in the car wreck. And it hadn't now with their hearts. Sometimes, you just had to welcome the pain, accept your demons and learn to live with them.
Except Yvonne wasn't a demon. She was the farthest thing from it.
2 7
“O h God.” Yvonne sat up the next morning, clutching her head. Was that her tongue? Or had someone placed cotton balls in her mouth while she slept? She groaned and reached for the bottle of water on her nightstand, chugging it down... then quickly realized her mistake as the headache morphed into nausea. “Uh-oh,” she said, moving the hand that cradled her head to her stomach. She closed her eyes, laying back on the pillow until it passed.
She looked to her right, the other side of her bed and pillow messed up, as though someone had spent the night with her.
The hollow ache in her heart gnawed through her chest as she remembered the night before—it should have been a foggy memory. Hazy with alcohol, but it wasn't. She remembered every last cringe-worthy, tear-inducing moment. We can't do this.
“You're up,” Kyra said, poking her head in the door. “How you feeling?”
“Like someone took a two-by-four to my head. You and your stupid Limoncellos,” she groaned.
“Don't blame the Limoncellos!” A man's voice bellowed from the living room. Yvonne felt her body go stiff.
