11. Cassidy #2
“Bindi? What are you doing? If Randall finds out?—”
“Shh.” She shakes her head at me, then holds up something in her hand—a folded blanket, and . . . a Pop-Tart. She has a foil-wrapped pastry in her other hand, the corner visibly burned and crumbling. In the faint porch light, I catch a sheepish grin on her face.
“He’s snoring already—old bastard sleeps like a rock after he rages. Nate covered for me.” She steps closer, and I can finally see her clearly as my eyes adjust, her feet bare on the wooden porch .
She presses the blanket bundle into my arms. “Brought you this,” she says softly. “Figured you might need it.”
“Thanks,” I mumble. Bindi holds out the Pop-Tart next. It’s cherry flavored—probably the worst flavor there is . . . but I guess I shouldn’t really be picky.
“Sorry, it’s burned.”
I take the Pop-Tart gingerly—it’s still warm. “You didn’t have to do all this,” I say, but my stomach betrays me with a low growl at the scent of food. God, I’m hungry.
“I wanted to.” She sits down on the porch, her back against the wall. After a second, I lower myself next to her. We huddle close, and I drape the blanket over both our laps, she instinctively leans into me and I soak up all of her warmth.
I chew on the Pop-Tart, which is mostly charcoal around the edges, but damn if it isn’t the best thing I’ve eaten all day. Bindi watches me eat, her expression unreadable in the dimness. Crickets chirp out in the yard, and a neighbor’s porch light glows a few houses down.
“You’re insane, you know that?”
I swallow the last bite and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Cole had it coming.”
Bindi sighs. “Maybe. But Randall . . . Cass, you can’t keep doing this—picking fights, getting thrown out. One of these days, he’s gonna do worse than just toss you outside. What if he really hurts you? Or—or sends you away?”
“I don’t care what Randall does, I’m not going anywhere. And I’m not gonna let Cole or anyone else touch you.”
She turns her face toward me. “I’m not some damsel in distress, Cassidy. You don’t always have to rescue me.” I open my mouth to argue, but she holds up a hand. “Listen to me. I’m not scared of Cole, okay? He’s a disgusting creep, but I can handle him. I’ve handled worse.”
My stomach twists. The thought of anyone hurting Bindi, ever . . . I push the image away and focus on her voice.
“I just . . . I don’ t want you getting yourself killed over me. Or kicked out. What would I do here without you?”
The idea of being separated from her . .
. that’s been my worst fear since day one in Randall’s house.
It’s why I threatened him with CPS that time, to make sure he wouldn’t keep us apart at night.
I had to make him let us continue to share a room so I could watch out for her.
If I weren’t here, who’d protect her? Cole?
Randall? A bitter laugh tries to rise in my throat.
“You don’t have to worry about that. He won’t get rid of me. He knows I’d . . . I’d talk if he tried. And I don’t care what happens to me as long as you’re okay, Binx.”
She closes her eyes for a second, and I think I see them glisten before she turns away. “You’re such a dumbass.” Then she leans in, ever so gently, and rests her head against my shoulder.
My heart thunders in my chest. We’ve hugged before, sure, even huddled together on really bad nights, but it always knocks the wind out of me when she does this.
Carefully, I slip my arm around her, letting her settle against my side. I feel the warmth of her, and it soothes something deep inside me. “Maybe I am. But I’m your dumbass.”
She huffs a soft laugh. “Unfortunately.” I can hear the smile in her voice.
We fall silent again. After a while, her breathing evens out and I realize she’s drifting toward sleep, right here on the porch with me .
I stare out into the dark, my eyes tracing the faint outline of the chain-link fence at the edge of the yard and the rusty pickup on cinder blocks by the curb.
This isn’t exactly a fairy-tale castle. It’s a crappy foster house in a crappy neighborhood, with an abusive drunk inside.
But right now, Bindi is curled into my side, and somehow that makes this porch feel almost like home.
She might think she doesn’t need protecting, and I love that she’s brave. She’s strong—stronger than any of us, probably. But damn it, I need to protect her. It’s like breathing or blinking—automatic. Non-negotiable.
I tilt my head slightly to look at her. In the faint glow from the streetlamp, I can make out her face tucked against my shoulder, eyes closed, lashes resting on her cheeks.
A strand of her hair has come loose, falling across her face.
Gently, I brush it back behind her ear. My fingers linger for a second, barely touching her hair, before I pull away.
She stirs a little but doesn’t wake. Her hand, which was resting in her lap, slips over and ends up on top of mine where it lies on the blanket. Even in her sleep, she finds me. The tiny motion sends a rush of warmth through my chest, and I feel an ache that has nothing to do with my bruises.
Nobody else gets it, what we have. Not Randall, not the other kids, not some caseworker.
They don’t see how Bindi and I hold each other up just to survive this place, how we’ve chosen each other as family in a world that’s given us nothing but crap.
It’s something sacred, what’s between us. She’s something sacred.
I give her hand a light, careful squeeze and whisper, “I’ve got you. Always.”
No matter what, I’ll put her first. Her safety. Her happiness. Her. Always.
And I’ll be damned if I ever let that darkness touch her again.