Chapter 15
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
I’m broken.
My parents taught me from the youngest age they could that I’m strong. I’m capable and can accomplish absolutely anything I set my mind to.
What they hadn’t taught me was how much that mindset could hurt me when I should be relying on others.
And now, on the mud-covered floor of the loo, my throat constricts as I hold back a sob. Hot tears burn the backs of my eyes, and saliva pools in my mouth. I am a broken mess who just wants her mummy.
Instead, I have this infuriatingly handsome man trying to coddle me, and I’m letting him.
But this needs to stop now because he can’t see how bad things really are. He can’t know because if he does, my friends will be next, and I’ll have them putting their dreams on hold to take care of me, and that is the last thing I want.
The thought sobers me. My shoulders pull back as I draw in a shaky breath.
“I’m sorry you had to see that, but thank you for your help. I’ll get out of here and be on my way so I can rest.”
His head tilts, sharp jaw flexing as he grinds his molars together, and the soft ends of his sweaty blond strands flopping over his forehead.
Those green eyes bore into me, as if reading my thoughts, his sudden silence unnerving. “I’m not sure what’s going on with you, but—”
“I must have a virus or something. I’d better get going so you don’t wind up with it too,” I say, trying to push myself up again.
His large, calloused hands land on my shoulders, dragging my attention back to him. “Adhira, you don’t have to tell me what’s going on—”
“You’re right, I don’t. But, like I said, it’s just a virus.” The words come out far too defensively to ring true, and I’m grasping at straws in an effort to keep reality hidden from this inquisitive man.
He rolls his eyes—an uncharacteristic thing for him to do. The loss of his warmth leaves an ache I can’t explain as he drops his hands from my shoulders.
“Will you stop and let me speak?” he asks, dragging a hand down his face as he releases a frustrated groan.
I peer up at him with wide eyes, my brows climbing my forehead.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that, but please let me say this, okay?
” he pleads, his eyes swirling with desperation, imploring me to hear him out.
Some of my fight-or-flight dissipates, my lips sealing shut at his request.
“It’s your choice if you don’t want to share with me, but I get the sense you’re not being honest with me, maybe not even with yourself, and I want to be here for you.
I’ve been losing sleep worrying about you because all I can hear when I go to check on you is the sound of you emptying your guts on the other side of your door.
” He creates the most endearing—and not at all disgusting—mental image for me.
A flatmate with an eye for detail was the last thing I’d hoped for. Someone too perceptive, too curious, who might unravel the secrets I’m desperate to keep hidden. It’s the worst combination of attributes I can think of.
“If you’re afraid I’ll tell your friends, I have no interest in doing so.
But if you decide you don’t want to go through this alone, whatever this is,” he says, waving a hand from my head to my toes as if that’s explanation enough, and unfortunately, it is.
“I just want to be here for you, however you need me. Your secret is safe with me,” he promises.
His words are even and genuine, and God, I want to believe him and give in to this need to have someone, anyone, to lean on. My shoulders begin to relax, but the moment he utters his next words, my hackles rise. If I could, I’d be scrambling to flee from my place rooted to the floor.
“I can handle whatever it is. You know about my mum and—”
Everything becomes heightened. The sound of his breathing, the musky scent of his sweat-sodden attire, and the too-bright light of the overhead fluorescents all seem turned up, as if some arsehole at a frat party—absolutely off his face and desperate for attention—is controlling the metaphorical volume knob.
My mind becomes completely closed off to Elijah, shutting myself out to the rest of the world as I slip into that dangerous place of numbness.
Elijah’s frustratingly warm, worried eyes are the only thing holding me back from the familiar darkness. “Please,” I say, snapping out of my thoughts. “Please, stop. I want to go home.”
His shoulders sag, the brightness in his eyes dimming as he nods. “Do you need help getting up?”
I dip my chin in a silent “yes.”
He stands, leaning over me, and offers his hand. I grab hold of it and don’t miss the strategic way he angles my body away from his to not touch me without my direct consent, but giving me all the support I need.
It’d be easier to keep lying to him if he weren’t so damn sweet all the time. It’s unbearable.