Chapter 26
Shay
Raine told me what happened to Monica, and my first concern was Landon. I knew he had to be hurting from the fact that Monica had overdosed. You couldn’t ignore the fact that the two of them had history. I knew his mind was probably taking him to the darkest corners of his soul.
I headed straight to the hospital and found Landon sitting alone in the waiting room.
His head was down, and his hands were clasped together.
His knuckles were white from his tight grip, and he looked as if every part of him was shattered.
His shoulders were hunched, and his sleeves were pushed up, revealing the scars he’d worked so hard to hide from the world.
Oh, Landon. Where is your mind tonight?
I walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
He looked up with confusion in his bloodshot baby blues. “What are you doing here?” he whispered, sniffling as he tilted his head.
“This,” I told him. I lifted my chair and sat it directly in front of him. I took a seat and then unclenched his fists and took his hands into mine. I held on to him, feeling the tremors in his body. “I’m doing this.”
He parted his mouth to speak, but no sounds came out. I held his hands even tighter as I watched the corner of his mouth twitch.
“Shay . . .” he started.
“It’s OK. We don’t have to talk. I just want to be here for you.”
He grimaced and cleared his throat as a few tears rolled down his cheeks.
“What are you doing here?!” a voice hissed, this time toward Landon.
He quickly stood and cleared his throat. “Mr. and Mrs. Cole, hi.” He brushed his hand against his forehead and didn’t make eye contact with them. “I heard about your daughter and wanted to make sure she was OK.”
Monica’s parents.
“That is none of your business,” Mrs. Cole barked. “It’s probably because of you that she’s in the state she is! You’ve always been dragging our daughter into troubled waters, and now it finally reached the limit. Our poor Monica is here because of you and your bad influence.”
“You’re probably the one who gave her the drugs she overdosed on. This is your fault,” Mr. Cole hissed. His words were coated in hate, which only made me despise him more.
“What? No, it’s not!” I started, but Landon placed a hand in front of me to stop my words.
It wasn’t fair, though. He was being attacked left and right for things he had no part in.
He wasn’t the villain of this story; he was the hero.
Yet everyone was showing up with pitchforks, chasing after him while shouting, “Kill the beast!”
Their hatred was misguided and misdirected. They should’ve been calling themselves out for being crappy parents.
“You need to leave this place,” Mr. Cole ordered Landon. “And you need to stay the hell away from our daughter. If I ever see you near her again, I will have the cops so far up your ass that you’ll never be able to come back to this town. Now go.”
“What’s the matter with you people?” I cried, feeling so angry for Landon.
I couldn’t imagine what my brain would do if I had full-grown adults hollering at me about how terrible I was as a person.
I wanted to rage for him. I wanted to defend him time and time again—every single second that a nasty comment was made toward him.
But he wouldn’t let me.
He refused to allow me into the murky waters to fight his battle.
“It’s OK, Shay. I’m fine. I’m going to go,” he whispered before turning toward Monica’s parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Cole, I am sorry for what you’re going through. I hope your daughter is OK. Again, I’m sorry . . . for everything.”
His voice cracked before he headed off toward the exit.
I went to hurry after him, and Monica’s mother gripped my arm, stopping me. “Let him go, girl. Isn’t it clear to you yet that he’s troubled? Don’t you see the damage he’s done?”
I ripped my arm away from her. “Don’t you see the damage you’ve done, Mrs. Cole?
” I turned to the two adults who were acting more like children.
“You’re all wrong about him. He’s not a monster; he’s not damaged .
. . he’s good. He’s so good, kind, and gentle.
Yet you all are so wrapped up in your fictional stories of who he is that you won’t even open your eyes to the truth. ”
I hurried off in Landon’s direction, and when I spotted him, I was quick to call out to him.
He turned around slowly with his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m coming with you.”
“No, Shay. You can’t. Didn’t you hear them? I’m no good for you. I’m no good for anyone.”
“Stop it. Don’t let that crap get in your head, Landon. They are wrong. They are beyond wrong. Don’t let them allow your mind to start spiraling. Let me come with you. Let me stay by your side.”
He cringed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t, Shay. Just give me time. I need to be alone to think.”
* * *
A few hours later, I rang Landon’s doorbell with nerves skyrocketing through my stomach as I waited for him to answer.
I held a stack of three notebooks in my arms, pressing them against my chest. A sigh of relief rolled through my system when the door opened, and Landon stood there. He looked so weighed down.
“Hey, you.” I smiled softly. “Can I come in?”
He stepped to the side and cleared a pathway for me.
I walked into the house and said, “Monica’s doing OK. She’s staying in the hospital for forty-eight hours before being transferred to a rehab clinic.”
“Rehab?” he questioned. “Good. That’s good.”
“I think so, too.” I held the notebooks in his direction.
“What are these?”
“When I find interesting people, I write character portfolios for them. It’s a weird screenwriting game I play with myself. So, in your hands is the most in-depth character portfolio I’ve ever created. It’s you.”
“Me?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “You. After Lance’s funeral, I became curious about you. These notebooks are the things I said about you. I wrote them all down and filled out three notebooks with what and who I thought you were. I’d love you to read it.”
He brushed a finger under his nose. “Will you stay with me as I read through it? I just . . . my mind is doing crazy things right now, and I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
We moved to the couch and sat down. I pulled my knees into my chest and chewed on the collar of my shirt as he read the words I’d written about him.
There were a few paragraphs that made him laugh out loud and others that made him almost tear up.
Every word was filled with curiosity. With want. With desire. With respect.
With love.
So much love.
“Why are you showing me this now?” he asked, his voice shaky as he placed the notebooks down on the coffee table. He couldn’t even get through them all because I wrote so many words about him.
“Because I know your brain is being mean to you.” I moved closer to him and wrapped my arms around his body. He put his hands on my lower back, holding me in place. “So I wanted to remind you of some truths.”
“Sometimes the truth feels like lies,” he whispered.
“I know . . . I’m sorry you’re so sad, Landon.”
“I’m too sad. It’s too much for you.”
“You’re never too much. I love your happy, and I love your sad. I love your light, and I love your dark. I love you. Every script, every page, every revision, every draft.”
He brushed his lips against mine and closed his eyes.
“I needed you today, and you were there. I cannot thank you enough for being there for me, for being here for me. For being . . . you. You make the darkest nights feel like the sun. I love you,” he breathed out.
“I love you. I . . . love . . . you . . .”
We were just two kids who made a stupid bet a few months ago. Two kids who pushed one another. Two kids who pissed each other off, who made rude remarks, who battled each other tooth and nail. And then, somewhere in the midst of our hate, we accidentally fell in love.
We made love twice that night. The first time was delicate and controlled; he went slow and worshipped every single inch of me.
The second time, I asked him to show me his scars, and he did exactly that.
It was a messy kind of love. His kisses were deeper, his thrusts were harder, and his love was loud.
He rocked his hips against mine, pinning me against the dresser, against the bed, against his heartbeats.
He made love like the wild beast that lived within him, showing me his pain, his heartache, his scars.
And that heartbroken boy? He was mine.
Damaged.
Broken.
Disheveled.
And completely mine.
* * *
At one point in the middle of the night, someone rang Landon’s doorbell.
I was already curled up in Landon’s bed when it happened.
He was already in the kitchen getting water for me.
He must’ve opened the door, because I heard two voices in the living room.
They started shouting instantly, making every hair on my body stand straight up.
“You almost fucking killed her, you asshole!” Landon hollered.
I pulled myself out of the bed and wrapped my arms around my body as I went to see what the shouting was about. The closer I grew, the more confused I became as the voice appeared to be a little too familiar.
“I didn’t know she’d overdose! Fuck! That stupid fucking kid! We were fine until she started to—”
My feet paused in the foyer as I stared at the two guys standing in front of me with a complete look of bewilderment.
“Dad?”