CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
BLAIRE
What the fuck was that? And why did I like it so much?
I’ve never been one of those play in my hair type women. Well, when could I have been? It’s not like Colt was dolling out book boyfriend fantasies the past ten years. The last guy who played in my hair was—
I cringe inwardly.
God. I haven't thought about Michael Bennett in years.
A boy I knew senior year. Tall and sweet and so genuinely, unself-consciously himself that it used to catch me off guard.
I liked his hands. The way he'd tap his pen against the library table when he was thinking.
The way he laughed when something actually caught him — surprised, like joy was something that happened to him rather than something he performed.
I haven't let myself think about him in a very long time. About what I did to him.
Bennet Sullivan just reminded me of him, and I don't know what to do with that.
He's been silent for the last ten minutes since we left the gas station, one hand easy on the wheel, the city giving way to the highway. I have stopped trying to analyze him and am simply letting the wind do what it's doing to my hair, which is considerable, and I don't care at all.
It's freeing in a way I didn't know I needed.
I tip my head back slightly and close my eyes behind my sunglasses.
***
One minute I'm in the convertible with the wind in my hair and the highway opening up ahead of us.
Then Colt's hand is in my hair and he's dragging me while the world tilts sideways.
Fucking whore. You liked that, didn’t you? Him playing in your fucking hair. Did you come on his lap like a goddamn slut?
I scream. I fight. My hands come up and I'm clawing at his grip, but I can't get free. I can’t go back.
"Blaire! Fuck. Move. I need to pull over!"
Bennet's voice tries to find me in the haze. But it's like listening from underwater, everything muffled and distant, Colt's grip still so tight in my hair, the pavement coming up...
"Blaire!"
The road.
The car is stopped.
We're in the parking lot.
The engine is off.
I can’t breathe.
Bennet is squatting down next to me inside the passenger door with both hands raised, palms out, and his face has lost every sharp edge it's been carrying.
"You're in the car," he says, dropping his voice low. "You're in Los Angeles. You're safe."
I'm gripping the seat with both hands. My knuckles are white. My chest is heaving, and there are tears on my face. The traffic passing in a roar sound like it's coming from very far away.
"Blaire." He says my name again with the same steadiness, and it pulls me another inch back toward the surface. "Can you tell me where you are?"
"The —" My voice is hoarse. I swallow. "The car."
"Yeah." He doesn't move closer. Doesn't reach for me. Just stays exactly where he is with his hands up and his eyes on mine. "The car. Just off Highway One." A beat. "He's not here."
I look at him.
He holds my gaze and nods.
"Come back to me. Right here with me. He's not here," he says again.
I release the seat. My hands are shaking, and I press them flat against my thighs and breathe — in for four, out for four — until the traffic sounds come back to normal volume and the interior of the car stops feeling like it's contracting.
Bennet sits back slowly. He doesn't ask me to explain it or confirm that I'm okay, because I'm clearly not okay and we both know it.
He just reaches into the back seat and comes back with one of the waters from the gas station and holds it out.
I take it, but my hands are still shaking when I try to unscrew the cap, and my fingers won't cooperate. I feel a fresh wave of humiliation on top of everything else. He takes the bottle back without a word, opens it, and brings it to my lips.
"Drink."
The water is cold, and I focus on that, take three long swallows before he lowers it and caps it, setting it in the cup holder between us.
The traffic moves past in a steady rumbling. Somewhere a horn sounds, distant and ordinary, and the ordinariness of it helps.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand. My mascara is probably destroyed. I can't find it in me to care.
"I'm sorry," I say.
"Don't be."
"I don't usually—" I stop. Start again. "I'm sorry." Like an overflowing dam, I can’t take the pressure, and a sob escapes me before I can stop it. I cover my face with my hands as even more humiliation washes over me.
Bennet pulls my legs around so that I’m facing him and wraps me in his arms. One hand rests on my back, the other on the back of my head. It takes a few minutes, but eventually, I wrap my arms around him. Burying my face in his neck. He pulls me closer.
"You’re safe."
For the first time since I woke up screaming, I actually believe it.