Chapter Forty
Forty
Scarlett
My biological dad is a dick.
When Kian takes me home, I don’t have to think about anything other than trying to process what the hell just happened inside that corrections facility.
From the second I got called into that meeting room to the moment those steel gates slammed shut behind me, I’ve never been more anxious in my life.
At the hockey house, Kian takes me to his room, tugging me along and into his bathroom. If it were up to me, I’d sulk in his bed with his clean scent engulfing me, drowning me in his sea. But he gestures for me to sit atop the toilet lid, and I don’t argue.
I drop down, hands limp in my lap as he grabs a fresh towel. The cotton is soft and still smells faintly of detergent when he presses it to my face. His touch is careful, but my skin stings from the residue of smeared mascara, dried tears, and the heat of public humiliation.
I know my makeup’s ruined. Probably all over his shirt too. But I don’t let myself look. I can only handle one layer of embarrassment at a time.
“Tell me what happened.” Kian wipes under my eyes, but I feel his hand tense, like he’s bracing himself.
The tiny white tiles blur in and out of focus as I search for where to start. “He called me a bitch. Said things about my mom I can’t even repeat.”
My voice cracks and I hate that it does. I breathe through it, forcing the rest out. “Then he told me I was the worst thing to ever happen to him. That if I hadn’t existed, he and my mom could’ve been happy.”
Kian’s jaw flexes, the muscles twitching along his cheekbone, his grip tight around the towel.
I drop my head into my hands, digging my palms into my eyes like I can scrub away the memory. “Then he told me I owed him a life,” I say, a bitter laugh crawling up my throat. “Said he could be eligible for parole if I took back my statement.”
I glance up. “That’s why he wanted to see me. To guilt me into retracting it.”
Kian’s already pulling his phone from his pocket.
I grab his hand. “What are you doing?”
His thumb hovers over the keypad, his expression darkening with each second.
“Kian,” I warn. “Whatever you’re doing, don’t.”
“I’m calling the prison,” he mutters, his fingers trembling. “That’s intimidation, Scarlett. You need to report him. He shouldn’t be allowed to do that.”
His hands shake harder as he finds the number. But I wrap my fingers around his, squeezing just enough to stop him.
“I could’ve reported it there,” I say quietly. “But I can’t deal with this right now. And I want you here with me.”
His eyes flash to mine, the storm in them barely held back. “That isn’t okay. None of that is okay. If that piece of shit wasn’t already behind bars, I swear to God—”
“I’m the one who went to see him,” I remind him. “I knew the risk.”
His jaw clenches so hard I hear the faint grind of his teeth. His whole body’s drawn tight.
“He can’t threaten you like that,” he snaps. “Can’t manipulate you, can’t try to make you recant your statement. I shouldn’t have let you go alone.”
“I wasn’t,” I argue. “There were guards. And if I make this a big deal now, I don’t want to risk my parents finding out that I went to see him. You know how that’ll end. I messed up. They were right.”
Kian tosses his phone onto the counter with a dull thud, both hands bracing against the edge of the sink. His shoulders stay rigid, his head bowed.
I stand, stepping closer to him until my fingers brush the inside of his arm. “I’m okay,” I lie. “You being here is enough.”
He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the tight pull of his brow, the way his jaw ticks again. But he lets it go.
Eventually, he guides me to his room. His hand lingers on the small of my back, gentle but hesitant, like he doesn’t know how to touch me without making this worse.
I climb onto his bed, expecting him to crawl in beside me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he drags his desk chair over, the legs scraping softly against the floor. He props his laptop between us, the screen glowing in the dim room.
He starts some show I can’t name, its only job to fill the silence. But it doesn’t help because I barely watch the screen, and every few seconds, I glance at Kian. His knee is bouncing, his jaw tight, and his eyes are glued to the computer, but his mind is clearly somewhere else.
“You can sleep here, you know?” I tell him, knowing there’s no way he’s comfortable in that chair. “I won’t bite.”
My attempt to tease falls flat when Kian doesn’t answer. I’m not even sure he’s heard me. When he’s got that glossed-over look, I don’t like it. I don’t like that something that I did to myself is affecting him this much.
I crawl across the mattress to place a hand over his fisted one. Kian’s head snaps toward me, like I pulled him out of a deep daydream.
“Do you need something? I can order food,” he says.
I try not to let my eyes tear up. “I’m okay. You just looked a little lost.”
It’s a terrible feeling knowing you let someone down.
“We can talk about it, if you want.” I’d rather do anything but talk about what Victor said to me, but if it helps Kian, I will. If it makes him look at me with anything but pity, I’ll talk.
Kian cups my face gently with one hand, his other landing on my bare knee, making soothing motions on the skin. “Sleep, Scar. I’m right here.”
It’s the politest rejection, the only kind Kian knows how to give. He’s already got so much going on with his mom and sister, it’s selfish of me to put this on him. I heed his words, going back to my spot under his covers.
What have I done to him?
Hours pass like that, my mind never turning off, keeping me wide awake.
When I check the time on my phone, it’s three in the morning, and the laptop screen is casting a blue haze over a sleeping Kian.
He’s slumped in the chair, his head tilted and his face relaxed in sleep.
I debate whether I should wake him, to tell him I’m leaving, but it’s the first time in the last few days that he looks relaxed.
I told him I wouldn’t be good at this, at being the kind of girlfriend I’ve seen his friends have. Sweet, uncomplicated, happy relationships. That’s what Kian deserves.
Carefully, I grab my jacket off the bed. The fabric’s still heavy with the rain from earlier, but I shrug it on anyway. I hover by the door for a second, my eyes lingering on him, his steady breathing, the small crease etched between his brows.
Then I slip out, tiptoeing against the floorboards, shutting the front door behind me as my Uber pulls up to the curb.
This feels all too familiar.