8. Ryder #2
“I know.” She wipes under one eye with the heel of her hand, annoyed by the tear more than upset by it. “Bad joke.”
“No.” I turn in my seat enough to face her. “I was going to say none of that sounds boring.”
Her face crumples for half a second before she drags it back together. That almost breaks my self-control clean in half.
“I hated him before you knew I did,” I admit.
Her attention sharpens. “What?”
“I hated him before the breakup. Before the bruises I saw too late to do anything about. Before I knew enough to call it what it was and beat the shit out of him.” I look out at the water because telling the truth to the windshield is easier than telling it to her face.
“I hated the way you changed around him. How you’d check your phone and lose your smile in the middle of a family party.
How you stopped wearing that red sweater you used to love because he made some comment at a cookout and you laughed it off like it didn’t matter.
How you stopped staying late at Josh’s because he’d text until you left. ”
Alex is silent as I give her just enough of my truth to make us both uncomfortable, but to leave the truth to breathe.
I force myself to keep going. She deserves the ugly parts too.
“I told myself it wasn’t my place. You were happy. Josh didn’t say anything. You didn’t say anything. Then every time I saw you, there was a little less of you in the room, and I kept standing there with my hands in my pockets like that made me respectful instead of useless.”
“You weren’t useless,” she whispers.
“Yes, I was.”
“No.” Her voice shakes, but it holds. “You were one of the few people I could be around without feeling like I had to make myself smaller.” She sniffles. “You were the person I thought of when I needed to feel safe.”
I turn back to her.
Her eyes are wet. Mine probably are too. I don’t check because I’m not about to look away from her even for a second.
“He knew that,” she says. “Preston. He knew I felt safe around you. That’s why he hated you.”
“I hope he did.” My hands clench. “I hope he hates me until the day he dies, so that we both live rent-free in that bastard’s mind.”
That earns me a startled sound, half laugh, half sob.
“I mean it,” I tell her. “I hope every time I walked into a room, it ruined his whole goddamn day. And if I have anything to say about it, his every single day moving forward will be just as bad.”
She stares at me, and for the first time since Lucy’s, the fear in her face loosens. Not gone. Nothing that big leaves in one night. But the tightest part of her eases, and she breathes in like the air has finally made room.
“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” she says.
Relief hits so hard it feels like pain. “You won’t be.”
“I don’t know what I’m asking for.”
“That’s okay.”
“I don’t know if I can handle going to your place either.”
“We can figure it out. Whatever you want to do.”
She nods, then looks down at her wrist. The marks are darker now, ugly against her skin. “I hate that he touched me after you did.”
I go very still.
Her cheeks flush. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant.”
“No, you really don’t.”
I let the silence sit long enough for her to decide whether she wants to take that any further, but she doesn’t.
“I hate it too.” I give her the admission, because she deserves the truth.
Her eyes come back to mine, and the cab gets small fast.
The kiss is still between us. So is Preston. So is every year I spent not touching her while wanting exactly that. I reach for the bottle of water in the cup holder and hand it over because if I put my hands anywhere else, I’m not sure I’ll behave.
Alex takes the water with a faint, embarrassed smile. “Hydration. Very sexy.”
“I have layers.”
“Mostly flannel and unresolved issues.”
“Accurate.”
This time when she laughs, it almost sounds real.
We sit until the storm starts hitting harder, rain snapping against the windshield in silver streaks. Alex drinks half the water. Her breathing evens out. Mine doesn’t, but I keep that to myself.
When I finally drive back toward her apartment, she doesn’t argue. She keeps my jacket around her and watches the road with one hand resting near the console. Not touching me. Close enough that I notice every inch.
Her building comes into view at 10:47.
I know because I check the dashboard clock while turning into the lot, already scanning.
The first thing I see is the broken light and my foot hits the brake automatically.
Alex jerks slightly. “What?”
The hallway outside her first-floor door is dark.
The motion light I installed just a few hours ago hangs crooked from the bracket, cracked plastic jutting out from the wall.
The bulb casing is shattered across the floor below it.
A streak of mud smears the paint beside her door, high enough to come from a hand or a boot or something bracing there.
Then I see the photograph.
It’s taped at eye level on her door.
My blood goes cold.
“Stay in the truck,” I say.
Alex reaches for the handle. “No.”
“Alex.”
“I’m not staying in here while you walk over there alone.”
I turn to her, ready to argue, but she’s already pale and furious and scared in equal measure. Her hand is on the door, and I can see the cost of sitting still written all over her.
I get out first and come around to her side. “Stay behind me, then.”
She opens her mouth.
“Please,” I add, rougher than I mean to, but just as urgent as I need it to be.
She steps out and stays close enough that I feel her at my back as we cross the lot.
Rain hits the pavement around us, making everything harsher than it should be.
I watch the shadows between cars, the corner near the dumpsters, the entrance to the hallway, every window with a view of her door because that’s where I would be if I were trying to get to her when she’s at her weakest.
The subject of the photograph becomes clear when we reach the door.
Alex and me in the rain outside Lucy’s, taken from inside.
My hand in her hair.
Her body pressed against mine.
My mouth on hers.
Beneath it, thick black letters slash across a strip of white paper.
HE CAN’T WATCH YOU EVERY SECOND.
Alex makes a small sound behind me, and it cuts deeper than the threat on the page. I turn fast enough that my shoulder clips the doorframe but I don’t feel it.
She’s staring at the photo, one hand clamped over her mouth. “He was there,” she whispers through her fingers. “He was watching us from inside the bar. Taking pictures of us.”
“Yes.”
“He came here when we left Lucy’s.”
“Looks that way.”
“What would have happened if I had come home right after? If we didn’t go to the harbor? Ryder, he would have hurt me.” Her entire body is trembling with the truth of what tonight could have become for her.
My answer is dark and demented and extremely dangerous, because I know that if something happens to this woman, I will unleash every hidden part of myself to get revenge for her.
Every lie I could use to make this feel less than it actually is dies before it reaches my mouth.
“I’m not letting you sleep here tonight,” I say.
She doesn’t snap at me or tell me that I can’t make that decision for her.
My girl is broken. This? This bullshit is causing her to withdraw back into a shell of the woman that she is. All because that piece of shit tried to hurt her.