Before she knew it, she’d created a small, thin slice along the underside of her wrist. Just enough to part the skin. Instantly, the pressure dissipated. Watching the blood well up and trickle down the inside of her forearm was fascinating and liberating. Exactly the release she’d needed.
That was years ago. Aside from her therapist, Spencer was the only person she’d told about that time in her life, and in a way, it felt like he understood her. He was the only person who ever really had.
It’d been a long time since Olivia cut herself, but as she stared at the faint lines crossing the blue veins and delicate tendons, Olivia felt a tug in her stomach—a deep, unrelenting urge to slide that thin piece of metal over the scarred skin and feel the burn of relief.
Dr. Peterson’s voice was a warning in her mind. Whenever she got too stressed, when the dark thoughts tried to take over, she was supposed to think of how far she’d come, her goals, what she wanted to accomplish, and remind herself how little this would help.
But it did help. That’s what Dr. Peterson didn’t understand. When Olivia cut herself, she could breathe again. It made her problems manageable. What was the alternative?
She didn’t like the way the pills made her feel, and group therapy was something she had always hated. Dr. Peterson couldn’t see her for days.
She wasn’t going to get through the next hour.
Even the next minute seemed an impossible feat.
No one understood what it was like being her. They couldn’t comprehend how hard it was to walk in her shoes. To have everyone they ever cared about discard them. Her whole life, Olivia hadn’t been able to hold onto anyone for any length of time.
Her father walked out on her. Her mother didn’t want her. Spencer left. And now Ally. That was the last straw, the tipping point that had her reaching for the slim, silver blade she kept beneath the sink out of habit. She’d told herself she kept it there to remind her of a place in her life she would never return to, but what was the use pretending anymore?
She’d kept it because someplace in the back of her mind, she knew she would need it.
Her heart raced as her legs fell open. Holding her breath to steady her trembling hand, Olivia drew one perfect line high up on the inside of her thigh. Bright red blood beaded in its wake, then collected. It fell in warm rivulets down her leg to the crease of her buttock to be absorbed by the towel still tucked beneath her. It blended with the burgundy fabric, disappearing as though it never happened.
The act left her feeling lighter, freer. Letting her head fall back against the wall, Olivia closed her eyes and relished the brief moment of peace that came over her, but it wouldn’t last long because it wasn’t a cure-all. It was also a vicious reminder that no matter how fast or hard you ran, the past was never far behind.
***
The metal was warm in his hand, taking on his body’s temperature. Spencer stared down at the single key laying flat on his palm.
After he’d left Bud and Haley behind, he’d walked. Just walked, with no real destination in mind. There was nowhere to go, no one who’d want him, and no one he wanted to see. Except one person. He’d been turning that thought over in his mind long enough to watch the sun set between a pair of hollowed out structures that looked to have once been some sort of factory.
The moment reminded him of when he’d left rehab. It’d only been a few days, yet he was already back to square one, and with only two options left. How pitifully depressing was that?
Option one left him sitting on the bus stop bench, exposed to the changing climate. A light mist hung in the air. If he stuck around long enough, it’d soak right through his clothes.
Option two had him right back on Olivia’s doorstep, asking for forgiveness. Again. How many times would he have to apologize before she got sick and tired of hearing it?
The sad thing was he didn’t throw out apologies for the hell of it. He really meant them. It was just that he couldn’t seem to stay on track long enough for them to hold any weight.
It was a low moment in his life—as if he hadn’t experienced several of those already—to have to go crawling back. But if anyone would give him another chance, however undeserved, it would be Liv.
For some crazy reason, she saw something in him. Maybe she was going for sainthood because, by his calculations, she should have washed her hands of him the moment he walked out her door the first time. By some miracle, she was still holding out hope.
That meant he should too, right?
He watched the TARTA bus charge down the street, brakes squealing as it rolled to a stop at the curb in front of him. The doors slapped open. Waiting until the last passenger disembarked, he climbed on and paid the toll.
Dropping into a central seat, he watched his old neighborhood float by. As they traveled over the drawbridge that separated the good half of the city from the bad, he thought it was crazy how a river could determine the differences between social classes.
It was somewhat representative of his and Liv’s relationship, too. He existed on the wrong side of the bridge while she was born to live on the right side of it. Knowing something of her past, Spencer felt certain that if Liv had had a better childhood, she would realize she was better than him.
She was so far out of his league, and the only thing that bound them together was the anguish, sorrow, and absolute pain from a past that held them fast in its grip.
As much as Spencer hated that she had been hurt, was still hurting to this day, he was glad for it. It made him a total asshole and completely irredeemable, but if she hadn’t been handed a raw deal in life, they never would have gotten together.
He just couldn’t find it in himself to regret that.
Their connection was the only thing that kept him from fully self-destructing. Without her in his corner, without her expectation and faith and constant prodding to get better, he never would have gone to rehab. Never would have talked to a counselor. Never would have known there was a better way. Never would have known change was possible.
So as the bus reached its next stop, he got off and headed back to square one: where his life had really started, with the one person who made it worthwhile.
All the windows in the apartment were dark when he arrived. Assuming she must be asleep already, Spencer turned the key over in his palm. He should have returned it before he left, but he couldn’t force himself to give it back. He needed that connection to her. The key was a symbol of that. As long as he had it, it wasn’t too late.
He needed to believe that.
Standing in front of the door, he considered knocking, but there was only one way he wanted to wake her. That morning in the bathroom…the image of Liv completely naked was still stuck in his mind like glue.
It was the perfect memory, and one he wanted to repeat every day from now on.
Letting himself inside, he looked around. It was so quiet it gave the impression of being alone. Dropping his bag by the door, he headed for Liv’s bedroom. He only made it a few steps before seeing the light under the bathroom door.
Listening intently, he could hear nothing coming from the other side. Knocking lightly, he said softly, “Liv, it’s me.” When there was no answer, he continued. “I—I just want to talk…about what happened earlier.”
Still, he heard nothing and began to feel a curious tightness in his chest. He knew she might not forgive him, but her silence drove home the fact that it might truly be too late to mend things between them.
Pressing his forehead against the door and closing his eyes, he prayed for the right thing to say. “You don’t have to come out. I’ll talk and you listen.” He drew in a deep breath. “I’m sorry…for a lot of things. For the party, for walking away. I know how you feel about that.”
She’d once told him about the profound emptiness she experienced from being left behind by her parents. The way they had turned her away had impacted her hard. It had followed her into adulthood, affecting every relationship she’d ever had. It was
the main reason she tried to stay unattached, but then he came along.
“Most of all,” he said, resting his forehead against the hard wood, “I’m sorry for what I said. You mean everything to me. Sometimes, it’s terrifying how much I care about you. That’s why I said what I did. Not to hurt you but to scare you away. I thought…I thought if you thought I didn’t care, then you’d finally see that I’m not worth the effort.
“But I want to be. When I left tonight…God,” he breathed, seeing his sister’s wasted form in his mind’s eyes. “It hit me. I’m not that person anymore. I don’t want to keep doing this, fucking everything up. I need this. I need you. Please tell me it’s not too late, Liv. Please.”
The silence was deafening. He waited, hoping upon hope that the door would open and Liv would be waiting on the other side, ready to accept him back into her life.
But it never did.
Turning, Spencer was prepared to walk away with his tail tucked between his legs, when a curious feeling settled over him. Intuition maybe. Whatever it was, he couldn’t walk away.
Without a second thought, he spun back around. A fine tremor shook his hand as he reached for the doorknob, almost as though his body knew what lay ahead better than his heart…which was thundering inside his chest like a heavy drumbeat.
The knob turned easily in his grip. Bright white light broke into the dimly lit hallway, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to what he was seeing.
Time suspended as he stared at the horrible scene before him. There, sitting in a pool of her own blood, was Liv. Her skin was a stark alabaster set against the rich burgundy towel that hung limply around her lax figure.
Her body slumped against the wall, her head hanging at an odd angle, and for a fleeting moment, if he didn’t look too closely, she could almost appear to be sleeping.
But she wasn’t.
There’s something inside the human brain that just knows. It recognizes the signs of trouble, of imminent danger. And he was staring at it now.
Cold dread seeping into his veins, Spencer rushed to her side. His fingers pressed into her throat, searching frantically for a pulse as he cursed her and begged for her at once.
A warm rush of relief surged inside of him when he found the strong, steady beat just below the sharp angle of her jaw. Sleeping. She must have passed out after…
God, she’d cut herself again.
A miserable groan left his lips as Spencer took his first real look at her. The damage he was familiar with on her wrists was old, stemming from a troubled childhood. But her legs…that was another story.
Between knees that had fallen open, angry red slashes aligned in a perfectly straight, perfectly even row, marred the creamy flesh of her inner thigh, starting in the middle and ending just shy of her groin.
Gently, he cupped the back of her knee and leaned in to assess the damage. How long had she been doing this? There was no sign of scabbing or old wounds. Everything appeared fresh, just hours old if he had to guess.
Which meant something—or someone—had pushed her to this. On the outside, people saw a strong, independent, happy woman with a zest for life. They didn’t know that just beneath the surface lay a girl who was steadfast in her belief that she could never be anything other than second best.
He’d known this, and yet, look at what he’d done.
This was his fault. He’d pushed her to this. If he had been thinking at all, he would have been more careful. He would have handled things better, made sure this didn’t happen.
Because of him, she’d lost herself in her disease.
Wisps of honey blonde locks had fallen over her face, catching in her eyelashes. Gently, Spencer brushed them back, tucking the hair behind her ear. Dark shadows ringed her eyes, making him feel like a letch for allowing this to happen.
For someone who claimed to care, he’d done a bang-up job of protecting her.
The towel gaped where it’d come untucked, leaving her body bared. He closed the gap, protecting her modesty even from himself.
Sliding his arms beneath her shoulder and knees, he drew her featherlight frame into his chest and carried her to her room. Placing her on the unmade bed, he removed the soiled towel, crusted with dried blood and discarded it into the hamper by the door.
The blankets came next, and he tucked her in up to the shoulders. When he was satisfied that she wasn’t going anywhere, he went back to the bathroom to retrieve the first-aid kit.
FOURTEEN
The first thing to come to mind when Olivia awoke was that she was in her bed. The last thing she remembered was sitting on the bathroom floor feeling too tired to move a muscle. Every bit of energy had just drained right out of her. But the fluffy, down-filled pillow was definitely familiar…as was the man who lay beside her.
Curled onto his side, Spencer lay facing her, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, his head so close she could feel the heat from every exhalation on her bare shoulder. He looked…stressed. He didn’t have the easy, unburdened look she read about the tortured men in novels having when they slept.
God…Guilt and shame struck her like a fist when she realized what must have happened. She couldn’t even find it in herself to be mad that he returned. She was more embarrassed at what he must have found when he did.
Flipping back the blankets, she found herself stark naked, but that wasn’t what alarmed her.
It was the ruby stained gauze taped to her inner thigh that had her gasping for breath. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she jumped to her feet. She needed to get dressed, she needed to cover herself.
The panic that flared in her had her digging frantically through her dresser drawers. When she found an old, oversized night shirt, she hastily pulled it on. Only then, as she tugged the material down her legs, was she satisfied that her secret had been safely concealed.
Logically, she knew that he had already seen it all. Seen what she had done to herself, but it was easier to pretend that he hadn’t. It’s how she’d gotten by her whole life—denial in its rawest form.
What did he think of her now that he’d seen it with his own eyes? Was he disgusted? Did he find her repulsive? He’d known her history, but knowing and seeing were two totally different things.
She thought of the mess she’d left in the bathroom—the dirty blade, the blood—and surged into motion. She had to clean it up. She had to get to it before he woke up and saw the horror of her actions in the light of day. Everything was clearer in the light. If he saw it now…
She shook the thought from her head.
The bathroom door stood open when she got there, and she didn’t have to turn on a light to see—or smell—that it had already been cleaned. Bleach and a hint of lemon hung in the air.
A burning sensation built behind her eyes. Everything—all her secrets—were out. Spencer had seen her at her absolute worst last night.
But he hadn’t left.
He was sleeping in her bed at this very moment, facing in the direction she’d been laying. Did that mean that he was worried about her? That he cared about her?
Last night, she’d felt so alone…like a boat set adrift. No family. No friends. Not even Spencer.
He’d left, but now he was back. But why, and for how long?
She pondered this as she brewed a cup of coffee and sat down in the living room to drink it, wincing as the tape tugged at her raw skin.
Faint, yellow sunlight filtered through the closed drapery, highlighting the fine sheen of dust on the table. Silence greeted her. In the morning, the apartment seemed to be wrapped in cotton batting, insulated from the rest of the world. Total radio silence and she loved it. She didn’t get to enjoy it often, but it was the one time of the day when she could truly feel anchored in this life.
She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before a bedraggled Spencer lumbered into the room, but it was long enough for the shallow coffee left in her mug to turn tepid.
Clutching it closer when she would have set
it away, Olivia gave him a small, unsure smile. Taking it as his cue, she watched as Spencer made his way over. Even beneath wrinkled jeans and black V-neck, she could see the latent power present in his long, lean frame. Heat speared straight through her at the sight of him.
He surprised her when he dropped down on the cushion next to her instead of taking the chair furthest away. She’d assumed after everything that happened last night—his leaving and her cutting—he’d want to maintain some kind of distance between them.
She loved that he didn’t.
It also terrified her.
Placing a hesitant hand on the foot she had resting beside his thigh, he squeezed. “How are you?”
“Better,” she murmured, dropping her gaze.
He nodded distractedly. An eerie silence passed between them, and Olivia knew what was coming well before he lifted those soulful blue eyes. “Liv—”
“Why did you come back?” she cut him off, desperate to avoid his questions, but his answer left her heart in tatters anyway.
“For you. I came back for you.”
***
He spoke the truth, but it was her reaction that unsettled him. He hadn’t noticed it before, maybe too distracted with the crap jumbled up in his own head to see what was right in front of his eyes, but she looked…tired.
He knew the look of defeat. Wore it himself most days. He’d always considered Liv the stronger of them, but he could see now that she was breaking. Possibly already broken.
God, he hadn’t expected to find her like that, passed out on the bathroom floor in a puddle of her own blood. He didn’t think he’d ever get that picture out of his head. It had been the single most horrific moment of his life. And he’d experienced a few to measure it against.
He wanted to be angry with her—and he was. To rail over how stupid she was to pull a stunt like that—because she was. He wanted to demand to know what was going on in her head, but knew demands weren’t the way to get answers. It’d never worked on him, so he didn’t expect the tactic to work on her. The thing about addicts was that you couldn’t force change on them. They had to want it first.
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