Chapter 13
Roxy
I hate the smell of antiseptic and desperation. I’ve been rooted to this chair for over five hours. Yuri has been in surgery since I’ve arrived, and my only solace is the fact that he's still breathing.
If he’s breathing, he has a chance. I’m not a religious person, but I clasp my hands, close my eyes, and pray to whatever entity might be listening to save him. He’s an innocent in all of this, a casualty of his proximity to me.
"Roxy?" Kai’s voice materializes beside me.
When I got here, I didn't know who to call. Luna and Roman are out of town for Julia's birthday, so my only option was to mention Kai’s name—the doctor Roman has on speed dial for personal house calls—to a nurse at the front desk.
"How is he?" I ask, my voice laced with exhaustion.
"The surgery went well, but his arm will need physical therapy to regain full mobility. What worries me is the concussion. We'll have to keep him under observation for a few days to make sure there's no brain swelling."
I simply nod.
After Kai briefs me on other possible complications, I decide to call Yuri’s mother. The call lasts ten minutes, during which I reassure her that there’s no need to come tonight, that Yuri is stable for now.
Before I can stand, I feel his presence. It's strange how I can sense him. This familiarity floods me whenever he’s near, as if my entire body instinctively relaxes just because he's close. I think that's my cue to get my own head checked while I'm here.
"Why didn't you tell me what happened?" Damien's voice is the only sound that echoes down the hall.
Because I don't know how to ask for help. Because I don't understand why I can't keep my walls up when it comes to you. Because I learned to handle things on my own, to not depend on anyone, and now, when I feel the need to lean on someone, my own defense mechanisms revolt.
"How did you find out?" I ask, confused.
"Kai called me. He didn't want you to be alone."
His last sentence feels like a thousand needles piercing my heart because I’ve been alone since I was five, and no one ever cared.
Yes, I have Luna, who probably doesn’t realize she saved my life just by becoming my best friend.
All those weekends I spent at her house because mine was filled with a crushing silence.
All those hugs I stole from her mother, just so I wouldn't forget what it felt like for someone to care.
But every time I stepped back into my own house, reality would hit me full force.
I was a stranger to my own family. No one bothered to ask what I was doing, if I had eaten, or how my day at school was.
I simply existed, like a piece of furniture you see every day but never truly notice.
I was tolerated, not loved. Left to exist on the fringe of their perfect family portrait, a shadow that wasn't supposed to make waves, ask for too much, or cause a scene.
My presence was an obligation, not a joy.
Until I became just like the woman who abused me for years.
A bitch. A cold-hearted woman. Someone who can't help but wound with words.
"Right before he left, I snapped at him over nothing," I say, my chin trembling. "He'd worked all day, the event was perfect, and I still felt the need to lash out. What kind of person am I?"
"You're tired, Roxanne. I'm sure your assistant knows you didn't mean it."
"Yuri. His name is Yuri," I whisper. "And he likes those weird black licorice candies."
He says nothing more, just sits beside me and hands me a coffee. I don't know how long we sit like that, or when my head slips onto his shoulder. I only know that for a few moments, the claw that constantly squeezes my chest finally loosens its grip.
"Talk to me, s?onko," he says softly, as if speaking to a child.
"I'm afraid of becoming my stepmother," I whisper.
"If I haven't already. No matter how hard I try to block her out, Damien, I always hear her voice.
When I look in the mirror and see a stray strand of hair.
When I see someone dressed poorly… I even judge Luna sometimes.
They're my thoughts but spoken in Ivette's voice.
It's no wonder none of my assistants last more than a couple of months. I'm horrible."
I don't know why I feel the need to tell him all this. Maybe because he doesn't judge me. Maybe because I want to believe that someone, knowing these things about me, won't run for the hills.
"We all have a dark side that tries to surface," I hear him say, and I appreciate that he isn't trying to downplay it. "Believe me when I tell you yours is just a trickle of darkness. Others have a tidal wave."
I turn to him and study his face. He looks tired, his dark brown hair disheveled, a few days' worth of stubble on his jaw, and dark circles under his eyes.
I take his hand in mine, and his gaze lifts to meet my own.
"For better or for worse, right?" I whisper.
A smile lights up his face.
"For better or for worse, s?onko."