Chapter 41
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
PRESENT DAY
On the way back to Will’s, my thoughts linger on mom, questions swirling in my head. Who was at Margie’s house? Why did Mom say no one hurt Margie or Ruth physically? What does that even mean?
I’ve been driving for ten minutes before I realize I didn’t even turn on the radio. I never drive in silence like this.
I press play on the song I paused earlier and turn up the volume. When I glance in my rearview, everything skids to a stop.
The vehicle behind me is a blue truck.
The blue truck.
I’m certain.
And they’re following me.
I suck in a sharp breath, trying to see the person driving.
It’s no use. I can’t get a good look from this distance. Quickly, I turn right without a signal, without warning. The truck turns right, too, keeping a steady distance behind me. I turn left on the next street, and the truck follows.
I weigh my options. I could pull over and confront them. I could call the police.
Or…I could call…
I press the button on my steering wheel to prompt my phone, and his name escapes my lips before I have time to process it.
He answers on the second ring. “Yep?”
“Will,” I whisper, and then, realizing the man can’t hear me given that he’s in an entirely different vehicle, I say louder, “someone’s following me.”
His calm, unbothered voice turns intense in a second. “What? Where are you?”
“I’m on my way home from Mom’s. It’s…it’s a blue truck.” I ignore the fact that I called his apartment home. It’s the least of my concerns right now. “The blue truck. The same one I saw at Mom’s.”
“Can you see who’s driving? How do you know they’re following you? Where did they come from?”
I shake my head, though he can’t see me. “No. No. It’s… I can’t tell from here. I don’t know how long they’ve been following me, but they took my last two turns.”
“Okay. It’s fine. You’re going to be okay,” he says, but I can hear the worry coating his voice.
“Maybe I should go to the police station.”
“Where are you, exactly?” he asks.
“I just passed the high school.”
Through the phone, I can hear him pacing. “You’re closer to me. Come home, Opal. I’ll be outside, okay? Don’t get out of the car until you see me.”
A breath escapes my lips. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Just stay calm. It’s probably someone on their way home who has no idea they’re freaking you out.”
“Do you really believe that?” I ask, looking for reassurance.
“Does it help if I say yes?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Then, yes. I really believe it. How far away are you now?”
“Two minutes,” I guess.
I can hear him moving. His voice echoes in the stairwell. “I’m on my way to you. It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you.”
Some part of his words settles in my chest. Not just the words, but the promise, warming the iciest depths of my fear.
As I pull into the parking lot for his apartment a few minutes later, I see him standing there. Waiting.
A wooden baseball bat swings low in his right hand. The sleeves of his waffle-knit shirt are shoved up above his elbows, the top button at his collar undone. He looks ready to break something for me.
My chest constricts. The fear washes away.
When I check the rearview mirror, it’s with just enough time to watch the truck zip past. For the briefest second, I consider turning around and following them, but the thought is terrifying.
This feels real now, in a way it didn’t before.
I can’t.
I park, and Will is at my door in seconds, opening it before I get the chance. He squats down next to the car, dropping the bat with a sharp clatter against the gravel. He wraps his arms around me, hands touching my back, my head. Like he’s checking to be sure I’m real.
His heart beats so hard in his chest I can feel it against my skin. His scent is pure coastal waters, and somehow still earth.
His words come fast. “You’re okay.” Some part of me thinks he needs to hear it as badly as I do.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, feeling silly and small. “You were right. I overreacted.”
He pulls back, zeroing in on my face. “Did I say you overreacted?”
“You said it was probably nothing. And you were right.”
“I hope I was right,” he says, his gaze following the path where the truck disappeared.
“But we don’t know, and I don’t want to have to find out.
” He cups my cheeks when he turns back to me, and my vision goes sharp under his scrutiny.
I’m very aware of how close he is, of the way my heart is beating.
“I’m glad you called me. Please call me. Anytime, every time.”
I give a small nod, and he stands and grabs the bat.
“Let’s get you inside.”
Will cautiously leads me up the stairs as if, in the process of being afraid, I somehow forgot how to walk too. Still, I let him. He holds his free hand out to my side, guiding me. Once we’re in the apartment, he closes and locks the door behind us.
“We’re okay,” I tell him gently. “Thank you again.”
The worry on his expression makes me more nervous than I was, though just the sight of his face right now seems to be calming something inside me that has never felt calm before.
I don’t fully understand what’s happening.
He checks outside the window toward the street, then moves back to the kitchen. Opening a closet next to the front door, he shoves the bat inside it before turning to face me. “Are you hungry?”
“Always,” I tell him. There’s no teasing tonight. No fighting. I don’t think either of us can handle it.
He moves to the island and flips on the water to wash his hands, then nods toward my usual barstool.
While he cooks, he keeps checking over his shoulder like he thinks I might go somewhere if he doesn’t keep an eye on me.
“I’m sorry we fought,” I say, my voice so low he might not have heard me.
He looks back after a few seconds. “You don’t have to be sorry.”
“No, but I am. It’s the last thing you need right now and…I swear, Will, I don’t know what comes over me when it comes to you.”
He doesn’t look my way, just keeps chopping sweet potatoes.
“It’s like I can’t help but fight with you, and sure, normally, you deserve it. But not right now.”
He turns back to look at me, then the right side of his mouth upturns slightly. “Truce, then? Until Mom’s better.”
I like the way he says that, like he’s certain she will be. I wish I had that sort of confidence.
I bounce my head up. “Truce.”
His eyes dance over my face. “Can I ask you something?”
Normally, I’d say something smart like, You just did, but I bite my tongue. “Sure.”
His face goes still, chest rises and falls with a steady breath, but he doesn’t look away. “Cory. You never gave me an answer.”
“That’s not really a question.”
His mouth twitches. “You just can’t help yourself.”
I watch him. His expression is hard to read—stony and vulnerable all at once. “I guess, technically, I never gave him one either. I didn’t text him back right away, and then everything happened with your mom, and it just…hasn’t felt all that urgent. He’s dealing with bigger things.”
“You don’t think it’s bothering him, not knowing where your head is?” There’s something simmering just under his words, like maybe he’s not talking about Cory at all.
I press my lips together. “I don’t imagine I take up much of Cory’s thoughts, to be honest. How did you know he was going to ask me out, anyway?”
Will looks away, his shoulders tight. “He…asked my permission.”
At that, I pull back. So that’s definitely what the conversation I overheard was about. “Your permission? Why would he need that?”
He shrugs one shoulder, still stiff. “You’d have to ask him.”
I chew my bottom lip, tracing along the veins of the island before I check to see him watching me. He doesn’t look away.
“But you gave it to him?” My voice is quieter.
At that he turns back halfway, not quite away from me, but enough so I can only see the hard line of his profile. “I don’t own you.”
The words land heavy between us. A line in the sand.
A contract I still need to sign.
“No,” I drag the word out, my tone light. “You just punch the guys who date me.”
Will turns back to me completely, hands resting on the countertop behind him, shoulders squared. “I punched Banks. Yes, there. You’re right. But not because you were dating. And not because I wanted to hurt you. Because…he was an asshole.”
A grin tugs at my lips, but I fight it. “What did he ever do to you?” I tilt my head. “Because he wasn’t mean to me.”
“He wasn’t nice to you either,” Will says.
The words are certain, matter-of-fact. For once, his tone isn’t defensive.
The argument hangs in the air. I could push this, could deny his claim. But is he actually wrong? Banks was never hurtful, but he was also never…there. He didn’t want to be serious. He didn’t want to put focus on our relationship because he was too focused on school.
But he was always upfront and honest about that. I knew what I was getting myself into with him. I agreed to it.
“He didn’t deserve to be punched.”
Will gives a small nod. “You’re right. It wasn’t my best moment.” His grip tightens on the counter behind him. “But you deserved better. I stand by that.”
I resist the urge to argue. To demand to know who made him in charge of what I deserve—then or now. But I bite my tongue. “I didn’t need you to stick up for me.”
Slowly, he turns back to the counter and picks up the knife, continuing to chop. “Maybe not,” he says quietly, after a moment. “But I did. I always did.”
The words settle.
Something solid sits in my chest, a mound of snow I can’t seem to melt.
“You said you’re the only one allowed to be mean to me,” I repeat his words.
He stills. Just for a second. “Exactly.”
I suck in a breath, bracing myself. “Did you ever think…” My voice thins. “That it might’ve been easier if you’d just been nice to me?”
That makes him turn around fully, his jaw tight, eyes flashing—ready for battle. “Oh, because you were so nice to me?”
“Will.” His name shatters on my lips. “You hated me. You bullied me. All our lives. You made my life miserable, and you got off on it.”