Page 32 of Dark Knight

We stay like this for a while, until she steadies herself with a deep, shuddering breath and swipes her hands over her face. All the trouble she went to with her makeup, only to end up looking like a raccoon. “Let's go home.”

“Okay. Here.” I pull off my leather jacket and drape it over her shoulders, then walk with an arm around her shoulders until we reach the garage at the end of the block where I left the SUV. She doesn't say a word, and I won't force her to talk. What else is there to say?

Still, there's something unspoken hanging between us throughout the ride back to the house while she rests her head against the seat with her face turned away from me. I can’t help wondering what's going through her head, just like I can't help wishing I was who she needs me to be now. She needs a friend, and I don't qualify.

I can't let it go, though. Something inside me won't allow her to go to bed without at least offering my support. I know it will drive me crazy throughout a long, sleepless night if I don't try. Once we’re inside, she goes straight for the stairs but pauses when I speak. “We can talk tomorrow about what happened over there. Get some sleep, and you'll feel better about it in the morning.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” she whispers, not bothering to look my way. Instead, she stares up into the dark hallway, one hand around the banister. “Don't worry about it. I'm used to dealing with shit alone. I don't need your pity, and I don't want your remorse.”

I'm too stunned to respond, not that she gives me any time before she rolls her shoulders back and sends my jacket falling to the floor. She pays it no mind, marching up the stairs. The closing of the bedroom door punctuates her cold rage.

And only ignites mine.

CHAPTER12

TATUM

“Get back here. Don’t you walk away from me!”

My pounding heart startles me out of sleep and thrusts me into reality. Sunlight floods the room–this isn’t the first time I’ve woken up this morning. I did the whole wake-up routine… up to a point. Once I was dressed and the bed was made, it occurred to me I’d have to face Romero next. Instead of dredging up the humiliation, I chose to hide by flopping back on the bed and brooding. I guess I fell asleep.

But I’m safe here. I know that. There’s no Kristoff. He’s not going to hurt me anymore.

It's my dream I'm not safe from.

And the rest of the world. My heart aches when I remember what happened only hours ago, the pain and humiliation and disappointment fresh. Ready to drown me in bitterness.

I don't know what I expected last night; I honestly don't. I hoped things would be different. I hoped I could get through it without losing my shit. And I might have, I really might have gotten through it and woken up this morning feeling good about myself and my future. I might’ve hadhope. I might’ve been able to visualize a life where I don’t have to brace in fear whenever somebody raises their voice.

Only I forgot one thing: you go to a club and dance alone, and you might as well be waving a red flag in front of a horny, drunken bull. I’m surprised it took that long for someone to approach me, and not because I have a high opinion of myself. I’m a woman. That’s all it takes.

I lift my left arm and push back my sleeve to examine for any bruises in the cold light of morning. I'm not surprised to find my skin clear—the guy, whoever he was, didn't grab me that hard. Compared to how Kristoff used to grab me and yank me around like a rag doll, it was hardly anything. But it didn't have to be. All he had to do was put a hand on me after I told him I didn't want a drink, and something inside me snapped.

Andhehad to see it, didn't he? He had to be there. Watching. Witnessing my breakdown. Acting like my big, benevolent protector. He even wanted to talk things out today. What a joke. Like that would do anything. He wants to be my friend all of a sudden? The guy acts like he knows me so well yet doesn’t have the first clue. The last thing I want is to feelpitied.

He pities me, and the idea makes searing hatred burn through me like acid. I felt it last night in the arm he draped over my shoulder. I never thought I’d crave sarcasm, but he left me wishing he’d call me spoiled or reminded me this was all my own fault. That, I can deal with. That, I can brush off the way I have so many times. It's sort of a skill I’ve had to master.

Kindness? No, thank you. He was only acting that way because he felt like he had to. It was pitiful.

He thinks I'm weak. Broken. It doesn't matter if that's how I feel sometimes. I don't wanthimto think it.

What am I supposed to do? How do I face him now?

Out of habit, I snatch my phone off the nightstand. There's one person I've always gone to for advice when I need it the most. But when I pull up my text history with Bianca, all I can do is hover my thumbs over the keyboard, frozen. I don't want to tell her about last night, either. Besides, it's too much to text, and I might get emotional if I have to describe it. I've done enough crying and questioning my sanity.

But as much as I love her, and as long a history as we have, what if she tells Dad? We’re best friends, but he’s her husband—God, it’s still weird to think about it. Her loyalty to him might outweigh our loyalty. It’s not like I did anything wrong, but he might be pissed if he finds out Romero let me go to a club. I wouldn't put it past him. And as much as I don't care if Romero gets in trouble, I don't need him being bitchy about it while I have no choice but to live with him.

I settle for texting something plain and low-stakes.

Me: How is everything going? I miss you.

I drop the phone on my chest, staring up at the ceiling. The silence around here is deafening. I don't hear him down the hall or downstairs, and it's way past his usual wake-up time. He's one of those people who likes to get up as early as possible for some bizarre reason. We’re pretty much opposites in every way possible.

The phone almost buzzes its way off my chest—I wasn’t expecting her to get back to me right away, but her quick response has made me smile for the first time since waking up.

Bianca: I miss you! Things are okay here. How are you?

It's not like I've never lied to my best friend, and it's for the best that I do now. She doesn't need to worry about me with the baby and everything. She’s been through enough drama as it is. The poor kid will end up being born with PTSD.

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