I attempt to form a coherent thought, but I can’t. The only thing I can do is pull to the side of the road, guilt for putting her in this position pressing up from my stomach, its toxicity surrounding me in a haze of uncertainty as I stare at her, trying not to lose my shit.
What kind of man does this to his girl, to the only person who welcomes, understands, and accepts every twisted corner of his mind? This asshole does, that’s who, not a single fucking disgusting inch of me deserving of the purity that was Amber’s love for me before last night.
“All I’m truly sure of is I want him again,” she says with unshakable conviction, a fresh round of tears pricking her yellow orbs as she meets my stare head-on. “Need to experience both of your touches at the same time for an array of reasons.” She sniffles and slithers back onto my lap, mercy coloring every crevice of her beautiful face as she presses her lips to mine.
I want to touch her. Christ, I want to touch her so fucking bad but I can’t get my limbs to move, my arms cemented to my side as she slides her lips to my neck, leaving them there. “Please don’t be mad at me for wanting him again, for wanting you both again. Like you, I expected this to be something I could handle. An emotion I could switch off the same way I have my entire life when it came to numbing my feelings.” Body molded to mine, she moves her mouth to my ear, her words spoken soft. “But after last night, after experiencing what it felt like to be broken down by two amazing men, I know I can’t switch them off. Not fully, at least. Even so, I can curb my feelings for Ryder. I swear I can. I know it may not seem like it, but I love you to the moon and back, Brock. I honestly do. I need you to understand this. More than anything, I need you to believe it. ” She seizes my lobe between her teeth and softly bites down, the caressing tempo of her tone a balm to my nerves as she loops her arms around my neck. Fingers tracing figure eights along my nape, she continues, a hint of desperation cloaking her whisper as she squeezes me as though it’s the last time she’ll ever get to. “Please don’t take away this tiny sliver of sanity from me. I promise, from this point on, I’ll tame my emotions for Ryder, keep them in check for the sake of everything you and I are. I just need to feel the way I felt last night at least once more. Just one more time, baby, please.” She rears back, her hands capturing my cheeks as another tear slips down her face. “I need to let it all go, banish every second of hurt, pain, and confusion I’ve carried with me through the years. That’s what being with you and Ryder did for me. It made me forget—even if just for a few blissful hours—that hideous day. The cold look in my father’s eyes, the sound of the gunshots, their blood splattered all over the sundress my mother bought me the day before. I’d never owned a new dress, Brock. Never. They were always hand-me-downs from one of the neighbor’s kids, or something my mother lifted from the Goodwill because we barely had money to pay the rent, let alone deck out my closet with new clothing. It was so beautiful, the entire thing covered in sparkly polka dots, flowers, and . . .”
She trails off, silence swooping in like a hungry vulture as her gaze turns distant, void. Although she’s sporting a small smile—evidence of a happy memory dancing along the sharp, jagged edge of her worst—the fear hijacking her expression can be spotted a mile away from those who can no longer see, felt from those who haven’t felt in years.
In physical pain—every muscle in my body aching for the torment continuing to rip mayhem through her soul—I swallow, fighting back my own tears from falling, my father’s bullshit spiel about how a real man never cries ping-ponging through my brain as I clear my throat instead.
Amber drops her trembling hands to my chest, their nervous rattle in sync with the furious pounding of my heart as she burrows her face in the crook of my neck. Unable not to—my concern regarding her feelings for Ryder temporarily vanishing—I pull her into my embrace, my arms caging her in my hold as the core of who I am soaks up the warmth of her tears burning her hurt across my flesh.
“The loneliness of the room,” she continues, the shakiness of her voice mimicking that of her limbs. “God, it was so quiet and still after they took their final breaths. The controlled panic in the operator’s tone when, after the sun set four hours later, I’d finally picked myself up off the blood-soaked carpet to call the cops. It all just . . . disappeared when you and Ryder shared me. It was as if that horrible day never happened, like it was nothing but a simple nightmare I’d woken up from—a dark tale my mind conjured up to write about in my journal. I wasn’t the Amber Moretti who was whisked away, kicking and screaming, from the only home she’d ever known. I wasn’t the eight-year-old little girl who knew why heroin addicts wrapped leather belts around their arms better than I understood the math my teacher was trying to explain to me in class. I just—”
“Wait,” I interrupt, her words sinking in. “What do you mean you understood why heroin addicts used leather belts, Ber? Were your parents . . . junkies?”
After what seems like forever, she nods. “The worst kind. But I didn’t want you to know that about them.”
“Why?” I press, feeling sick to my stomach, images of the night I’d slipped into the serpentine flesh of the devil—all but shoving my bong down her throat—exploding in my head as everything starts to click into place. It all makes sense now, every twisted fucking second of it. Her hesitancy. The anxiety clouding her beautiful eyes. Her overdramatized response to something as innocent as weed. Christ. While my girl was trying to avoid the mistakes of her parents, attempting to do right by her future, my concern was wrapped around being the first asshole to get her lit up.