20. Knox #3
She’s right behind me. I can hear her heels on the hardwood, her breathing fast and heavy.
“Knox, stop!”
I don’t stop until I reach Owen’s door. My hand hovers over the knob for a second, knowing what I’m walking into. But I twist it and push inside.
My response is visceral as I suck in a quick breath, bending at the waist to get the air to reach my lungs. Then cursing under my breath at the sharp stab of pain in my still-healing ribs.
I knew the room would be all Owen. He’s been living back at home since he graduated, probably waiting to get a place with Sawyer. But knowing and seeing are two different things.
The bed’s unmade, pillows sideways along the edge. He always refused to make his bed and it drove my father crazy. His old lacrosse sticks are leaning against the wall in the corner. His laptop’s closed on the desk and a hoodie is slung on the chair.
It smells like his cologne.
My brother, who’ll never be back in this room again.
I press my knuckles against my eyes, trying to force the tears back, but they come anyway. It’s so fucking pointless to cry, but I can’t stop.
“Knox…”
I knew she’d follow but fuck. I don’t want her to see me like this. My breaths are ragged and vision blurred as I straighten and turn in her direction.
She steps inside, closing the door behind her.
I can see the pain all in her expression as she lets the space surround her senses.
In here, there’s no escaping the fact that Owen is gone, and that feeling hits me harder now than it did all day, even when I watched his casket get lowered into the ground.
“I’m sorry,” I say, wiping at my face.
She sucks in a ragged breath, and moves to sit on the edge of the bed. “You made a scene out there. Embarrassed me, Knox.”
“You shouldn’t have been back there.”
“It was fine.” She grabs a pillow and holds it against her chest. “Now everyone’s out there talking about me.”
“I don’t give a fuck what people say and you shouldn’t either.”
“Well, I do!” Her voice wavers. “I already have to deal with being David Thorne’s daughter. I don’t need this too. I don’t need everyone staring at me, talking about me, wondering what the hell is wrong with you that you’d…lose your mind that way.”
“They should be talking about you. You were going to marry him.”
“Was I?” she cries, staring down at the ring. “If memory serves, the second I found out about this ring, I ran for the hills…with you.”
“Sawyer…”
She shakes her head, clutching the pillow tighter. “Don’t try to make me feel better about it.”
I sit on the bed beside her, and her body drifts closer, until our thighs are touching. I grab her hand, taking a closer look at the ring, before meeting her bloodshot eyes. “Why are you wearing it?”
She pulls her hand away to look at it. “Because it’s all I have left of him.”
“That’s not true,” I say. “Try again.”
She closes her eyes, and I watch a tear streak down her face. “Because it proves he wanted me. That I’m not a terrible person. That I’m not…unloveable.”
I reach out and catch her tear with the pad of my thumb, watching her swallow roughly.
“You’re not unloveable,” I say. “You’re so fucking far from unloveable it’s not even a question in my mind.”
She opens her eyes, and the pain in them guts me. “Don’t say things like that to me. Not here. Not now.”
“Owen loved you more than anything. And that had nothing to do with whether you deserved it or not. He just did.”
“Then why do I feel like I failed him? Like if I’d loved him enough, if I’d been better, none of this would have happened?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Grief is fucking with your head?”
She lays back, tossing the pillow to the side, her hair around her head like a halo. “Do you feel guilty?”
The question hits me like a blow. I don’t need to ask her for clarification, I already know exactly what she’s talking about. All the things she’s talking about.
Yeah. I feel guilty. I feel guilty every second of every day. Guilty for kissing her. Guilty for wanting her. Guilty for sitting here right now, in my dead brother’s room, feeling her skin under my palm and thinking about all the places I’d love to touch her again.
“Of course I do.”
She sits up on her elbows. “Can I be honest with you? Without you tormenting me later?”
“Sawyer…I—”
“Don’t fucking say you’d never torment me, Knox, because that’s a lie. You’ve been making my life hell for years.”
I love that her fiery personality is coming out. “What were you going to say?”
“Nevermind.” Her back hits the mattress again, and she stares up at the ceiling. Voices drift in from outside the door, but I don’t care, they can all go to hell.
I move and hover over her, taking in her gorgeous blue eyes, wet with tears, the curve of her neck, the rise and fall of her chest, the way she’s looking up at me like I’m the only person to exist in this world. “Tell me.”
“No.”
“Thorne, tell me right fucking now, so I can make you feel better.”
Her hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me closer. “I don’t want you to make me feel better.” Her lips are inches from mine. “I want you to make me feel worse.”