I think of all the people who died at Dornan’s hands. Jase’s mom. Mariana. My father.
“I should have known you’d never give up on avenging all that death.”
His stubbled jaw tightens; he rubs his red eyes with his palms.
“I’m sorry for what I did with Dornan,” I whisper.
He shakes his head, covers his eyes. “Don’t,” he says. “I can’t talk about that, not now.”
I swallow, nodding sadly. Elliot steps away from the window as a buzz emanates from his pocket. He drags his phone out and looks at the display. “Sorry, I gotta take this,” he says, busting the front door open and closing it loudly behind him. I imagine him on the stairs, talking to his ex, or maybe to his grandma.
I turn my attention back to Jase. “My darling boy,” I whisper, my two palms outstretched. A sad smile ghosts across his face, his thick eyelashes glistening. He isn’t crying—he’s far too stubborn to cry in front of me—but he’s right on the edge.
“I thought he’d killed you,” Jase says, distraught. “I walked into that room and there was blood everywhere, and I thought you were dead.”
The lump in my throat is like a piece of razor blade, wedged in my neck; I try to swallow and talk around it, but it doesn’t budge.
“You must hate me for the way I left things,” I say softly. “For the way I stormed out of your house, for the things I said. I don’t know what I was saying. I was stupid.”
He shakes his head, “I don’t hate you, baby. I couldn’t hate you if I tried.”
My smile is watery but full; the contraction of facial muscles squeezes more tears from the corners of my eyes. “Sometimes,” I whisper, “I wish we were different people. That we’d been born into another life. That we didn’t have to fight so hard just to have each other.”
He simply nods, bringing one of my hands up to his mouth and kissing the back of it so slowly, so tenderly, I feel like I might break in two.
“It’s worth it, though,” I add, my skin burning pleasantly where his lips have touched.
He smiles. “I know,” he murmurs.
He stands, taking my hand, leading me down the hallway back to the bedroom where Luis gave me the methadone.
“You should rest,” he murmurs. “I’ll fix you a sandwich.”
I don’t resist. I’m too tired, and so hungry I could eat a horse. I arrange several pillows against the headrest and sit against them on the bed.
I am safe. I am free.
It’s still so utterly foreign, and it makes me realize how crazy I must have been acting on the boat last night. When I refused to let Jase near me. Fuck, what a bitch I must seem. A damaged, crazy, bitch.
It’s only afterward, while I’m chewing on the sandwich Jase has made me that I remember.
I still have that craving at the back of my mind, that annoying, on-edge, cloying sensation that screams for another hit.
But the itch that covered my body, it’s gone. The nausea is much less intense. And the pounding in my head is better, too.
Maybe I can do this, after all. And Jase will never need to know how close I came to becoming my mother.
Jase falls asleep on the bed next to me before I’ve even finished eating. He must be exhausted. I doubt he’s had much sleep at all, worried sick, staying up to make sure nobody hijacked our ship in the night as we drifted out of Dornan’s grip. I gently shift myself off the side of the bed and pad out of the room. It’s been raining steadily for a few minutes now, rain thrumming down on the tin roof, and I hear the guttering gush and creak with the onslaught of heavy rain.
I spot the top of Elliot’s head as he sits outside, under the verandah, just like he always used to in Nebraska. There’s a peace here that didn’t exist in Los Angeles, even when I was somewhere hidden away from Dornan. A quiet stillness punctuated only by the rain that pours from the heavens above us. The little old house almost seems to rattle under the weight of it.
I find a kettle and rinse it out, boiling it and making tea with the teabags I find underneath the sink. There’s no milk, not yet at least, so I put a little cold water and some sugar in each mug and give them a stir. Holding the two mug handles in one hand, I get the door open using a combination of my hand and my hip.
Elliot glances briefly behind him, his hand going to the gun beside him on the step. When he sees me, he smiles briefly, taking his hand from the gun.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Am I interrupting?”
Elliot’s always been a thinker. I know he likes his solitude; I don’t want to intrude.
He shakes his head, accepting one of the tea mugs. “Nah. I was just sitting.”