Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
CADENCE
Drake waits on the passenger side of the car when I emerge from my final lesson, arms folded on the roof. When I get within range, he tosses the keys to me. “You want to drive home? My vision’s not the greatest.”
I immediately wonder how he managed this morning, then put the thought out of my head as I slide into the driver’s seat, stroking the soft padding of the wheel.
When I start the engine and head for the exit, I understand why he drives above the speed limit. The vehicle is so responsive, I’m tempted to plant my foot and see how fast it can go.
In a complete overreaction, I end up driving far slower.
Five minutes in, Drake makes a rumbling noise in the back of his throat. “I asked you to drive home, not crawl.”
With a smile, I let the car slow even further, monitoring his clenched jaw from my peripheral vision. “That better?”
He starts to say something, then stops, putting a hand to his head, wincing.
“Are you okay?”
“Just the same migraine I get all the time.”
I want to say something about his smoking. How even if his doctor suggested it, a second opinion wouldn’t go astray.
But saying that will just open me up for ridicule because, yeah. I’m a hypocrite.
At the next set of lights, I glance over. “Thanks for telling me about the bingo card.”
He gives a soft laugh. “Thanks for telling everyone I told you. Don’t be surprised if I hesitate next time.”
“Sorry. It caught me off guard.” I frown at the road as we come to another intersection, resuming once we’re got a green light. “Viliami told me he had a ten grand bet on whether Hudson would spill the beans.”
“Course he did.”
I shoot him a quick glance. “You could’ve told me to keep my mouth shut and worked the system.”
His fingers tap out a quick drumbeat on the dash. “Except I’ve known you too long to think you could carry a lie that long.”
“Fair, but you don’t know what I’m capable of when incentivised.”
His smile falls away, replaced with a curl of disgust. “I’m sure you can sort out a deal with Hudson to split the proceeds fifty-fifty. Make your mother proud.”
“Jesus, you’re a dick.” I pull to the side of the road, slamming on the brakes. “Get out.”
Drake stares at me, genuinely startled. “This is my car.”
“Not today. I’m the one with the keys and if you don’t do as I say, I’m throwing them into the bushes and neither of us will be driving home.”
“Fine. I’m sorry.”
“Now say it like you mean it.”
He shoots a furious glare at me, then his lips slowly curve into a smile. “What’s my forfeit if I don’t?”
“A punch to the gonads so you stop thinking with your prick for a change.”
“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, then winces, putting a hand on the dash like he’s about to faint. The grimace passes in a few seconds, and he adds, “Your mother’s been really nice to me, actually.”
“Good. Your apology’s accepted.”
I pull back into traffic, arriving home just a few minutes late.
“Do you need a hand?” I frown as Drake opens the door, moving at tortoise speed. “Should I take you to a doctor?” His pallor and fumbling motions frighten me.
“It’s fine.”
“It is not fine. ”
But he continues to make his own way and I get out, pocketing the keys in case we have to reverse direction, putting my arm around his waist and his arm over my shoulder as we exit, the door rumbling shut behind us, inching towards the house.
“You can’t make it upstairs like this,” I mutter then instantly regret it as Drake heads in that direction to prove me wrong.
Even in pain, barely able to focus, he’s far stronger. The best I can do is assist him upstairs, helping until he sits on the bed, nudging his shoes off before he lies down.
I draw the curtains and move his shoes to the wardrobe before heading to my bathroom to run cold water on a cloth, pressing it to his forehead. “Can I get you some painkillers?”
“Stop fussing.” He catches my hand, pulling it close to his chest until I kneel on the ground to make it easier. “I’ll be better once I have a nap.”
“But this isn’t right.”
I think he’s fallen asleep—or passed out—but a moment later, his eyelids lift to half-mast. “It’s from an old head injury. There’s nothing I can do.”
“When did that happen?”
“When I was a baby.” He’s still holding my hand and his thumb strokes across the back, soothing me when I should soothe him.
“But you never used to get headaches like this.”
“Mum used to give head massages that would stop them getting worse.”
“Can you show me? I want to help.”
I feel him freeze and when his eyes seek mine, they’re wary. His grip on my hand softens, then he clutches even tighter, pushing himself upright. “She’d sit behind me and press against my skull.”
It sounds like something guaranteed to make it worse, but I get into position and lean him back against me, tentatively holding his head between my palms.
“Harder than that.”
I try, still hesitant, ready to stop at the first sign of discomfort.
But his dark lashes flutter as his eyes close, a drawn-out sigh releasing from his throat. The longer I try, the easier it becomes until the repetitive movements and pressure work to ease the frown lines from his face.
“I’m sorry,” he says under his breath, then straightens a little, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry for frightening you. Everything was so hazy; I couldn’t process anything. Finding her…”
He chokes to a halt, and I ache to think of him discovering her body. I don’t want to push him back into that agony, I want to help him. Offer the chance to stop. Mumble about how it’s all right, I know he didn’t mean it.
But I nearly bite my lip in two to stop myself because it’s not true.
He did mean it.
He didn’t just want to hurt me, he succeeded. The actions he took that day caused me lasting harm. There’s always going to be a part of me trapped in that moment, certain I’m about to die.
And no matter how much I want to move past this—to forgive him and move on—I can’t do that without the apology he owes me.
So, I keep my mouth shut, continuing the massage while he regains control.
“Finding her hollowed me out until there was nothing left. Then I saw Harriet with the pills, and I was so angry. When she pointed me towards you, it was too much.”
Drake twists towards me, burying his face in my chest, a large hand covering mine as he fights to swallow, face wracked with grief.
“I know we hadn’t been all that close since Intermediate, but I couldn’t stand losing you. I hated that you were involved.”
“But I wasn’t involved.”
His eyelids close, the long lashes trembling as he fights for control.
“She peeled off the label.” I try to draw back, and his hand won’t let me. His eyes open. Changeable, beautiful; an abyss of pain. “She would only have done that to protect the person who gave her the pills. That’s why I was so sure once Harriet told me. It made sense when it was you and was nonsense for anyone else.”
A shudder wracks his body, and he faces forward again, releasing my hand.
I resume the motions, fingertips digging through his hair, rubbing hard circles on his scalp. Salt from his morning swim thicken the strands, making them stiffer than if he’d used product.
“Afterwards, I held onto the fury because I hated what my life became. Not just the camp, though that was bad, but moving here with my father. I hated him being so different from Mum. Cold where she was warm. After a few months of trying, I couldn’t stand to spend time here. And every night before I fell asleep in my car, I’d think how everything that had gone wrong in my life could be laid at your door.”
He takes both of my hands, squeezing them, and I hold tight in return.
“I’m sorry for turning you into a monster when you’d only ever tried to be my friend. Sorry for scaring you. I’m sorry for every time you woke from a nightmare because I put those fears in your head. I would do anything to take it back.”
It’s not perfect but nothing about us has ever been perfect.
What matters is how light my body feels, like each word he spoke took away some of the suffocating weight that’s slowly, inexorably, crushed me to the ground.
The words are a balm to the worst of my memories. I shake his hands free to hug him, resting my forehead on the curve of his shoulder, letting my hot breath warm the shiver on his skin.
It’s not perfect, but it’s enough.
“I forgive you.”
We sit like that, warming, comforting each other, for long minutes. The first pieces of scar tissue stitching over the deepest of my wounds.
Then I give a shake, placing my fingers on his scalp again, working out the tension until his forehead is free of pain lines. His breathing is slow and even.
“Beautiful,” he mumbles, capturing my right hand and pulling it across his chest, folding it inside his. “I should coax you into bed more often.”
I stretch my legs out, lying beside him, tucking myself inside the bends of his body like a nesting doll while the steady pump of his heart vibrates against my palm until we both fall asleep.