Chapter 11 Bohdan
Bohdan
I watch Sloan tug either side of the brim of Tia’s giant hat down over her face, like she can hide from everyone on the ship.
It might work to keep strangers from noticing her, but she’s never be able to hide from me, and something about the way her knuckles turn white, fingers ramrod straight as she holds the ugly hat like it’s a buoy in the ocean, tells me she’s trying not to tap against it and count.
So, I do it for her, and hope her brain hears me and stops whatever it’s saying that makes her think she needs to atone through numbers. “Jedna. Dvě. T?i.”
“Pay attention.” Talon cuts me a sideways look, elbow finding my shoulder as he walks along behind the suite concierge—Aron, a much too-friendly, too-passionate employee who definitely couldn’t read the tension in the room at all—on this little private tour of this giant ship he arranged for us. “What are you even saying?”
“I’m counting.”
“Counting what?” he prods, promptly forgetting his own demands to pay attention, eyes on me instead of watching this makeshift tour we’re being given.
“How long it’s going to take before my restraint snaps and I fucking clock you for doing this.” I jerk my chin towards Sloan where she walks side by side with Tia, nodding along like she’s so interested in the activities schedule and the water aerobics offerings. “How could you do this to her?”
I wait for him to repeat everything he said earlier. That he expected us to read the itinerary, that the booking was clearly for a suite, not individual rooms, that he never believed we’d both come.
But he stops, cocks his head back, eyes sharpening with something like disappointment, and asks me in this uncharacteristically quiet voice, “How could you?”
“Don’t tell me this was some shitty attempt at getting us back together.” I shake my head, pressing my fingers between my eyes before they find my temple. “It’s not going to work.”
Talon glances over his shoulder, waiting until Tia and Sloan are further down the hall with Aron before whistling through his teeth at Jay.
Jay tips his head back, cheeks puffing out in exasperation before jogging back towards us, hands shoved firmly in his pockets.
“Hypothetically,” Talon starts, waving a hand between me and Sloan’s retreating figure, “if it would work, would you want it to?”
Jay pinches the bridge of his nose and swipes a hand through his hair. “Would he want what to work? Don’t tell me this was some sort of setup, Talon. Jesus.”
Talon’s lip curls up and he waves his hand at Jay. “Give me some fucking credit, Choi.”
“I don’t know, man, last time I visited you, there were a surprising number of romance books on your shelves. Thought you might have picked up a thing or two and wanted to see if you could put it to the test, help your friend out at the same time.” Jay holds his palms up.
“Men can read romance, Jay. In fact, I think they should. Might learn a thing or two.” Talon clicks his tongue before turning to me. “Big thing the books talk about—communication.” He starts walking backward, pointing. “Maybe you should try it some time.”
“Solid advice, man.” Jay widens his eyes, giving Talon’s retreating back a sarcastic thumbs-up when he turns around.
I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes before tugging on the ends of my hair. My hand grazes the raised edge of my scar, and I feel a bit like recoiling.
“You okay?” Jay asks, quieter now, hands back in his pockets, and he points with one elbow towards the end of the hall, where Aron has them stopped, pointing at the golden crown moulding and the wall sconces with a bit too much enthusiasm. “Head bothering you?”
Talon’s the only one who looks remotely interested.
“My head’s always bothering me,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“Do you want to, I don’t know, go somewhere else? We can grab a drink. I counted at least eight bars on the way in.” He jerks his head in the opposite direction of Talon.
Of Sloan.
“Nah. It’s fine.” He looks at me like he doesn’t quite believe me, and he shouldn’t, but I start walking down the hall anyway. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a whole pharmacy back in the room if I need it. You ever tried medication in the form of a nasal spray?”
He laughs, I think in spite of himself, but I’ll count it anyway. “Can’t say I have.”
We catch up just in time to hear Aron talking about the passenger capacity of the ship in mind-numbing detail.
One of the things I loved first about Sloan was how herself she is.
She’s always known exactly who she is.
But it was also one of the first things to break my heart, because she might be herself, but she’s always been apologetic about it.
Case in point: Aron won’t shut up about the capacity of the ship, the sheer size of it, how we’ll probably never see the same passengers twice on any given day.
And so quietly—not like she doesn’t want anyone to hear her, but like she’s afraid they might—Sloan taps a finger against her thumb and whispers, “No wonder cruise ships are a central hub for human trafficking activity.”
Tia turns to her just as she’s rounding the corner. “Did you say something?”
“No.” Sloan shakes her head, full lower lip pouting.
They all follow. It’s just us here in the hallway with the stupid golden sconces and the ostentatious crown moulding, and I decide to try and take Talon’s advice.
“Louder. Take up space,” I murmur, pressing a knuckle between her shoulder blades where her tank top hangs loose, giving me a glimpse at the expanse of skin stretching down her back that makes me want to die a bit.
Sloan jerks away, one hand swatting at her back where I sort of hope she can still feel me, and she narrows her eyes before taking a measured swallow. “Don’t. Don’t say things like that, and don’t touch me.”
“Sloan, I just—”
“No,” she says, pressing her palms together to point them at me, and there’s conviction in her voice, but I can see the damage I did strewn all over her. “This whole thing will be much better if you and I just don’t speak.”
“You think we’re going to spend a week together—staying in the same suite—and we’re going to be able to just . . . not talk to each other?”
“I’ve had a year and a half worth of practice, Bohdan.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard her say my name, and there’s no fucking way anyone could say the pain lancing across my forehead is psychological. She might as well have ripped the whole thing open again.
It gets worse.
She keeps talking. “I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”
I grip my jaw, shake my head, and I’m about to say something—I don’t know what, but I’d do anything to be able to fix this.
I’d go back in time to when they stitched up my head, and I’d ask them to take the string and save it to tie her back together.
But she holds up a hand.
“You made your bed, Bohdan. And it was, unfortunately, one without me.” Her voice cracks, her eyes cloud over, a solitary tear slips out, tracking down over her freckles, and I reach out to wipe it away, but I catch my hand right when she jerks backward.
I don’t think I could say anything even if I tried.
I’ve hated a lot of things over the last year and a half I’ve been without her.
I’ve hated even more things in the year before that, and they all started on the day I got hurt.
I’ve hated my brain for failing me in more ways than one.
I’ve hated my body for not being able to catch back up.
I’ve hated my lungs for depleting faster.
I’ve hated that fucking equipment company.
I’ve hated my former equipment manager for the sole fact that I ended up with a bad helmet.
I’ve hated the guy who hit me.
I’ve even hated the guy who made the play that had me close to the boards.
I’ve tried my hand at hating my two best friends, because they still get to skate.
But I don’t think I’ve ever hated myself. At least, not the way I do right now.
She gets the last word.
“Now lie in it.”